


Murder On The Air (Remake)

by KathyPrior42



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:15:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 30,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28753494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KathyPrior42/pseuds/KathyPrior42
Summary: For Edward Bosco, Gabriel Brown and Deadly Vu for bringing Alastor to life!Tagline: "It's time to tune in..."(Chapter summaries for unfinished chapters for backup)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	1. Down In New Orleans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We got magic, good and bad  
> Make you happy or make you real sad  
> Get everything you want, lose what you had  
> Down here in New Orleans”
> 
> – Randy Newman/Disney

January twenty-fourth, eighteen ninety six

(1-24-1896) (VA b day: Jan 24 1986)

New Orleans was a city bustling with jazz, energy and a uniqueness in comparison to other states in the U.S. The annual Mardi Gras festivals were complete with parades, good food and celebrations that lasted for several months of the year. The city lay near the Mississippi River. The French Quarter was the heart of New Orleans, known for Creole, Cajun and Spanish architecture and a unique blending of culture. Old fashioned cars with extra wheels on the sides were forms of transportation and newspapers were circulated widely. Other areas of New Orleans consisted of murky swamps, peaceful bayous, and densely wooded areas. At night, fireflies, alligators, deer and other wildlife would often come out in the safety of the dark.

Men and women would wear a variety of different clothing to suit their needs. Farmers would wear overalls, checkered shirts and straw hats. The women would go about their days in light-colored cotton dresses, leggings and shoes. Fancier folk would wear tall top hats, suits with bow ties, shiny black shoes, pants and the occasional a stylish cane. Upper class women would wear colorful dresses, high heels and round hats with flowers and sequins on top.

Sounds from jazz bands and lively music would fill the air, often in the mornings and evenings. Rhythm and blues, jazz, swing and a bunch of different genres would merge together and evolve into a new kind of music. At the tall white Imperial Theater building, performers would awe the audience with their dances, musicals and songs. It was the passion for the arts, music, food and life that brought a variety of people together in an otherwise segregated world.

And what a segregated world it was.

African Americans and Native Americans were treated as lower class and segregated from the dominant white-skinned folk every day. Signs labeling “white” and “colored” glared accusingly at people’s faces in bold letters at every door, drinking fountain and entrance. The rich had it much easier than the poor, who roamed the streets and begged for food. With money, mansions and material goods, the butter and egg men brushed aside the sufferings of the poor, the different, the strange…anyone who didn’t quite fit in. Men would often stay out late in bars, flirting with pretty dames or getting zozzled after drinking too much giggle juice.

Women worked in second class jobs that paid less than male-dominated jobs. They were the housewives, secretaries, teachers, cooks and maids, among others. The unfortunate ones were often prostitutes or homeless. Men were expected to provide for their families and demonstrate their strength and intelligence. Women were expected to care for their children and support the goals of their husbands. Only a handful of women were lucky enough to have equal standing with their partners, let alone have good husbands. Those who were homosexual or queer practically didn’t exist at all in the mainstream public eye.

There were many different kinds of individuals that lived in the state of jazz, voodoo and Mardi Gras. Being able to live a comfortable, care-free life with some entertainment was a prospect that many wanted but few could achieve. Being famous was often a bonus for those who were really lucky.

And for a time, one man achieved all of those things…but it came with many costs. Beneath the ordinary demeanor, a consuming fire burned within him, always hungry but never satisfied. Through both life and death, he became something more. A presence as elusive as the airwaves themselves. 

A boy was born to Armand Louis Moreau and Antoinette Loretta Duvalier (Etta for short as she liked to be called). Armand was a white Christian French man with brown eyes, glasses, a pointed chin, muscular build and short brown hair that slanted off to the side. He was a preacher, hunter and taxidermist, showing off his animal skins and heads every winter to fellow hunters. He was born to conservative parents. 

In contrast, Antoinette was African American, with black curly hair tied up in a bun and warm chocolate brown eyes that radiated positivity. She would often wear cotton dresses of many colors and matching round ladies’ hats. Antoinette was Christian as well but she also grew up practicing voodoo and hoodoo with her family. Her mother Odette, lost twin sister of Mama Odie, was one of many Voodoo Queens and was rumored to be a descendant of the infamous Marie Laveau. Mathis was Odette’s dark skinned witch doctor husband. Antoinette’s favorite hobbies included cooking, sewing, practicing voodoo rituals and singing. It wasn’t uncommon for the couple to dance to the gramophone in their living room together. Although their interracial marriage was highly frowned upon by Armand’s parents and society in general, their love for each other outweighed the harsh remarks. 

It was three in the morning on January twenty-fourth, eighteen ninety six. The dark-skinned African American woman was sweating and straining for breath as she gave birth on a hospital bed. Her wailing baby was carefully carried by nurses to be washed and examined. The woman’s face lit up with a smile when they allowed her to hold him. 

“He had a few birth problems along the way,” one dark-skinned nurse said, concern in her eyes. “With gasper smoke in your body, I imagined he had trouble breathing.” Nearly everyone smoked when they could have the time for it.

“But we can assure you that he is perfectly fine, Antoinette,” said a second nurse. 

“Mesi Bondye,” Etta sighed in relief. She gently moved back a strand of dark hair from the baby’s forehead. The baby had brown skin, lighter than his mother’s but darker than his father’s.

After several days, it was time for them to go home. Etta carried her infant in blankets and walked out through the doors of the “colored” hospital clinic. Thankfully, her husband’s friend was very rich and had been willing to take her to the hospital faster, even though her water had started to break in the dead of night. The friend had taken her on a Ford Quadricycle, a horseless carriage vehicle that was seen as a toy for the wealthy. Currently, Etta was feeling much better, but it was still a ways to go as she started her walk toward home. 

The Moreau family lived in a simple house not too far from the woods and the bayou. They also had a cabin deeper in the forest where they would spend the winter months. The house was made of gray brick with square windows, a black roof and a tall chimney. It also had a porch, a dirt path and a bunch of trees from the northern wood to provide shade. There was an upstairs and a downstairs. The house was not too far away from the New Orleans city, but a safe enough distance away in a suburban area. 

“Cher!” Etta called as she walked inside. 

“Right here,” replied a tall man who stood up from the couch. He walked over to his wife and gave her a comforting side hug. 

Armand gazed down and looked at his baby boy with as much adoration as his wife. The baby’s brown eyes locked onto the man, moved slightly and then held their gaze on the woman’s lively face. 

“Isn’t he beautiful?” Etta asked.

“Oui,” said Armand in affirmation, kissing Etta’s cheek. “He’s perfect. Have you decided on a name yet?”

“No I haven’t,” she said.

“I have the perfect name for him,” said Armand, “Edward Alexander, after my grandfather.”

“Hmm,” Etta pondered. “Alexander seems pretty catchy. Not sure about Edward though.”

Etta placed the baby in a small crib in a guest bedroom. A hanging mobile of forest animals hung above the crib and a small stuffed deer sat in one corner of the crib. The baby cooed as he crawled over to nuzzle and feel the soft smiling animal. 

Armand rummaged through the newspaper and glanced at an article. “Good Lord,” he said, shaking his head. “There’s this student at Trinity College who’s passionate about occult studies and criminal activities. Doesn’t he know that path strays away from all that is pure and true? And a deviant hetro? Unbelievable.” 

Etta peered down to take a look, eyebrows raised. “I’ll admit…a guy being into other guys is highly unusual…”

“And downright illegal!” Armand exclaimed. “I’m surprised they haven’t arrested the kid yet.”

“What’s his name?”

“He calls himself Aleister Crowley. A peculiar name indeed.”

After a pause, Etta gasped.

“What is it, cher?” he asked.

“That name…it sounds so fitting…so unique. I think it means ‘man’s protector.’ Yes, that’s what I’m calling my boy!”

“No, absolutely not! Are you mad? People will start comparing him to a Satanist or druggie once they hear of Crowley. Besides, the name is hard to spell.” 

Etta held up her slender brown hands. “Don’t worry! We can use Al as a nickname if we want to.”

“I’m not fond of nicknames, Antoinette.”

“Oh really, Army?” she said with a playful tone. “You know Etta is what I like.” 

Armand rolled his eyes. “Don’t call me Army.”

“Sorry, Army, um Amy.” She smirked wider. 

“But his name…” he began.

“I ain’t changin’ my mind,” Etta finished. The man sighed in defeat. 

“Okay, Aleister Moreau it is.” He wrote it down on a piece of paper. “But can we please change it up a little?”

Etta smiled. “Just what I was going to do. It’s not quite right yet.” After some thought, she scratched off the first name and wrote down a few more: Allstair, Alester, Alex. Then at last, she settled on the final one, circling it. “Perfect,” she said with a clap of her hands. “There’s no better name than this one.”

“I’ll admit, you’re right on this one,” Armand said. 

Etta had a single name written down in bold letters: Alastor.

The little baby cried and cried all night long. Several times, Etta had to get out of bed and comfort him. Sometimes the baby was hungry and needed milk from a bottle. Other times he had to have his diaper changed, which wasn’t very pleasant. Lullabies usually seemed to work, Etta had a beautiful soothing voice. She would hum hymns from church and sometimes she would sing songs about ancestral spirits roaming the mortal planes. Often times, little Al would stare off into space as if fascinated by something only he could see. 

In her lavender pajamas, Etta closed her eyes a bit as she rocked her baby and sang:

“Sweep, sweep, sweep away  
Sweep the road of dreams  
People say that in the night  
The turtle will talk it seems  
The turtle will talk it seems”

Al’s eyes fluttered closed and he nuzzled into his mother’s chest.

“Bonne nuit, Ally,” she smiled as she tucked her baby into the crib with a small red blanket. 

Then there were other times when Alastor would cry for no reason at all. He’d throw fits during feeding time, cry in church on Sunday mornings, crawl around in circles or make strange noises when playing with his toys. When he wasn’t crying, he was crawling and exploring. He was getting more accustomed to his movements and surroundings.

“Why does that baby cry so much?” Armand asked with a hint of grouchiness. 

“He’s just the same as any other baby. He wants food, changing, attention.” She bent down and playfully bopped Al on the nose with her finger. He laughed as she giggled. The baby soon broke out into tears half an hour later.

She turned to her husband. “But why else do infants cry so much?” Answering her own question, she cupped her cheeks with a sigh of fatigue, “Sheer absolute boredom.” 

It wasn’t long before little Alastor was walking on two legs.

“Oh good boy! Easy, Ally,” smiled Etta as he took wobbly steps into her arms. She caught him as he stumbled. The boy briefly gripped at the fabric of his mother’s sunflower yellow dress. 

“Amazing,” said her smiling husband, affectionately rubbing the boy’s head. The man’s wavy light brown hair shined in the sunlight that was pouring through a wide window. “He walked across the living room! He sure is a sweet little angel.” Etta nodded in agreement. 

“He seems to be eating better as well. I have a feeling Ally will be a fast learner. Baby steps, right?” She winked. 

Armand chuckled. “You and your mom jokes.” 

Five years old, Nineteen hundred and one

Alastor was a fast learner indeed. He learned his ABCs in kindergarten, happily drew with crayons and could count to ten forwards and backwards. He always stood for the Pledge of Allegiance and enjoyed writing his name. Although shy at first, he quickly became fast friends with many of his classmates. No one cared about what he looked like; anyone could be a good friend in a child’s eye. On the open field, Alastor played with girls and boys alike and the teachers watched them with smiles in their eyes. 

Alastor happily skipped on home, a boy with outward facing ears, medium brown skin, and a messy mop of short brown hair that parted off slightly toward the left side. Armand’s friend guided him back to his house. 

“How was school, kiddo?” Armand asked as little Alastor came back from school and walked through the front door. Armand nodded in thanks to his friend. 

“It was amazing, Papa!” he beamed. Armand picked up his son and spun him around in the air, causing the boy to shriek with joy. Etta watched with happiness from down the hall. 

“I learned all sorts of things today!” Alastor exclaimed as his father set him down. “I wrote my name all by myself and we sang some songs. Oh, there were so many great books to choose from, too.” 

“I’m very proud of you, Alastor,” Armand said, giving him a hug. “I look forward to hearing about tomorrow.”

After school the next day, Armand taught Alastor two very different things. One was bike riding.

After practicing on a tricycle, the young boy sat on a child-size bicycle seat, his feet barely touching the ground. He held on tight to the handle bars, whitening his knuckles. 

“Place your feet on the pedals here,” Armand instructed, guiding Alastor’s white shoes onto the pedals. “Push down with your foot here…”

Alastor pushed his foot and the pedal moved down, his other foot still on the ground.

“You gotta keep your other foot on the back pedal,” he said. “Your feet will work together as they pedal and move your bike.” Armand supported Alastor’s back with a hand, had his other hand on the seat and guided Alastor along the sidewalk. A scared Alastor stared at his feet.

“Always look ahead of you,” Armand instructed. “Your body will go where your eyes follow.” Alastor lifted up his head, lips quivering.

“There you go,” Armand said as Alastor practiced turns and stopping his bike. His father let him go, and he leaned his body right and left, trying to keep his balance. Alastor briefly peered off to the side and saw a rabbit munching on the grass. His mother had said that rabbit meat was a tasty addition to food.

“Focus, Alastor!” Armand snapped his fingers. Alastor looked ahead, and crashed into a nearby trashcan. “Owwww…I’m okay!” he called in his high voice, his knees scraped up. Armand shook his head.

Later on, Armand held his hand on Alastor’s back, guiding him along. “See how that feels? The movement?”

“Yeah.”

“This is how it will feel when you ride comfortably on your own.”

He briefly let go and Alastor stumbled with a “Whoa!” and fell to the side. Armand lifted up the bike and helped Alastor from the grass. Alastor rubbed his knee and brushed off dirt from his brown trousers. 

“Let’s go again.”

Several times they went, and Alastor got fearful and fell each time Armand let go of his back.

“When you feel yourself leaning one way, lean the opposite way. No, Alastor, your left not your…”

Crash!

“…right.”

Alastor had yelped and crashed his bike into a nearby tree. He stood up on shaking legs and wiped away tears.

“Let’s try again.”

“I don’t want to.” 

“Just a few more times, you almost had it.”

“I’m never gonna get it!”

“Never say never, my son,” Armand looked him dead in the eyes. “You can and will do great things in your life. Moreaus always persevere.” 

One week of practicing later, Alastor took a deep breath as Armand helped him out onto the bike. Alastor pumped his legs as much as he could, increasing his speed. He didn’t even notice when Armand let him go. For the moment, Alastor got the hang of it. The marvelous feeling of flying and zipping by. In the sunlight, his brown hair briefly shone in a reddish tone.

Alastor squealed with laughter. “Papa! I’m doing it!”

He traveled down a sidewalk hill past other children. One of the older kids muttered in a snarky tone, “Crazy baby mulatto!” The name calling kid then had to quickly move out of the way with a gasp as an excited (and somewhat terrified) Alastor skidded on down the street. 

“Stop, Alastor!” Armand called in warning.

The boy’s eyes widened. “Yahhhh!” he yelled as he rode closer to a cobblestone street. Horseless buggies crawled across the surface. Some loud beeps and chugging engines were heard from a few old fashioned vehicles. The boy’s shoes scrapped against the asphalt as he slowed down as best as he could. Armand raced after him. 

His front tire made impact with a large crack in the sidewalk and Alastor flew off his seat…

Strong hands held him in place just before he could tumble into traffic.

Armand breathed heavily in relief. “You really scared me there, kiddo,” he said. He carried Alastor home on his shoulder, dragging the small bike in his other hand. 

Etta clapped her hands joyfully as Alastor recounted his adventures.

“You’ve really improved,” she said, wearing a simple tan colored dress with floral prints on it. She glanced down at Alastor’s cut up knees and washed them off gently with a washcloth. Alastor winced with watery eyes.

“It’s alright, I’ll get you patched up in no time. So brave you are, Ally.”

Etta lifted up the corners of Alastor’s mouth when she was done. Happiness reached Alastor’s eyes as mother and son shared a hug.

“That’s the smiling face of my wonderful boy.”

Armand led Alastor into an adjacent area outside while Etta prepared the pile of laundry to hand-wash on Monday. It was a back porch where outdoor supplies were stored. 

“I’m going to teach you another basic skill that will be beneficial later on,” Armand said. “I know you’re not very good at sports…”

Alastor briefly looked downcast; although he was a fast runner, it was hard for him to hit and throw balls. 

“…but I believe you’ll get the hang of this one.” 

He walked over to a steel cabinet and opened it with a small key. He carefully carried out a wooden stand filled with curved holes and placed it on a counter out of reach. Pointed downwards in each manmade hole lay a different sized knife. Armand took one of them out and tested the feel of it. A black handle and a triangular blade, reflecting off sunlight. 

Armand held the knife in his hand for Alastor to see. The boy’s eyes widened in terror and fascination. 

“As I think you know, I’m an avid hunter,” Armand explained. “I have a rifle locked in a safe in the living room. I’ll teach you some basic skills like my father taught to me. Guns and knives aren’t toys, son. They are dangerous weapons but not so much if you can properly handle them.”

“Mama won’t be too thrilled,” Alastor mentioned. 

Armand ignored his comment. “All I’m teaching you now is cutting, self-defense and aim. We’ll work on firearms when you’re older.”

He handed Alastor a lightweight butter knife to practice with. The two men walked over to a wooden table where peeled bananas lay on wooden cutting boards. 

“Pretend that these bananas are small parts of meat.” He showed Alastor how his fingers looped around the black handle. “Loop your middle, ring and pinkie finger around the handle. Keep your fingers close together.”

Alastor positioned his fingers around his knife and Armand reached over to move his fingers closer together. “Get a feel for it, make sure it fits comfortably in your palm.” 

Shortly after, Armand showed him how to pinch his thumb and index finger against the base of the blade. “Don’t get your fingers too close to the sharp edges.” 

“If I do this,” Armand held the end of the knife handle, “Then I won’t get a strong grip. It works much better with your fingers close together.” He demonstrated the proper technique again, giving Alastor a clear view of his fingers. 

He started to chop up the fruit in front of him. “Keep a tight grip and your fingers still, or else you could cut yourself.” 

Armand demonstrated how to carry his knife, with a firm grip and the blade pointing toward the ground. Alastor copied his actions. Armand then showed him how to grip the food, using his knuckles to protect his fingertips. He rocked the blade forward and cut the fruit in swift motions. Alastor practiced for a while and eventually got the hang of it. He also watched how Armand sharpened his knives. Alastor got to eat the banana slices afterward. 

Later on, Armand and Alastor practiced knife-throwing at a wooden target attached to a large tree near the center of the yard. “The target could, in real life, be a wild animal or an intruder, so you’ll need to make sure you’re calm and precise,” Armand instructed. Armand threw his knife and it spun rapidly and hit the bullseye. The boy’s eyes widened in admiration. Alastor tried to copy him but his knife landed haphazardly in the grass. He raced forward to retrieve it. 

Armand helped Alastor into a straight posture. “Keep your body straight and relaxed.” As Alastor practiced, he would often switch from his right hand to his left and then back again. In contrast, Armand only used his dominant right hand.

With the target not too far away, Alastor practiced one half spin throws first. Over the course of time, he progressed to one spin, two spin and no spin throws, getting more confident. 

“Geez you two!” Etta called, standing in the porch doorway, “Be careful with those knives!”

Alastor’s knife finally hit the bullseye and he raised his fist in triumph. 

“See, Alastor?” said Armand. “You can do anything you put your mind to.”

One starry night, Armand and Etta took little Alastor with them to Mardi Gras. Alastor had been to Mardi Gras festivals and parades several times before when he was a toddler. Back then, the bright lights and noise had been overwhelming for him. But not today. Now was the first time he could truly immerse himself in the experience. 

“Laissez le bon temps rouler! Let the good times roll!” 

Alastor repeated the happy chants in both English and French. He had learned basic French and a little Creole shortly after the time he learned his ABCs. The three Moreaus were dressed in gold, purple and green; Alastor wore a simple green shirt with golden yellow pants. Etta wore a brilliant dress of deep purple with gold colored trim and a matching bow around her waist. Armand wore a practical suit of forest green. Etta wore a red sequined mask around her eyes and tape on-ears that resembled the ears of a red doe. On the other hand, Armand wore a dark gray face mask shaped like a large wolf-like dog. Little black deer antlers were on a small headband that Alastor wore, small versions of the fake antlers behind Armand’s ears. Etta tried sticking a short fake tail to Alastor but he didn’t like it. 

Alastor sat on his father’s shoulders to get a better view of the parade.

Oh was a wondrous sight it was!

Fireworks boomed in the background as dancers in colorful costumes moved and swayed like palm trees in the wind. Purple, green and gold colors where everywhere, shining from the sequined costumes and masks or floating by as beads and confetti. Each Mardi Gras color had meaning: Purple represented justice, gold stood for power and green symbolized faith. The French fleur-de-lis was seen on banners, floats and pretty much everywhere.

Jazz and marching band music intermingled with the cheers of the crowd on either side of the parade floats. Standing from balconies surrounded by black iron barriers, several citizens wearing golden glittery masks tossed confetti down into the crowd. A group of people twirled flaming batons, juggled and waved to the crowd in front of green floats shaped like alligators. Horse-drawn carriages with decorations and flags were also part of the procession. 

“Throw me something, mista!” several children called out as the elaborately decorated floats rolled on by. A man dressed in a fancy top hat and suit on a lion float tossed a handful of beaded necklaces to the delighted children. They all jumped and scrambled to catch them. One golden necklace soared through the air and Armand caught it. Etta showed it to Alastor, who fiddled with it in fascination. 

After the parades, the Moreaus wandered over to the bustling food courts. Colorful food and exotic smells enticed Alastor’s senses. Unlike many children, Alastor enjoyed new foods and disliked sweets. 

Traditional dishes were everywhere: Crawfish Etouffee, Dirty Rice with liver bits, the Po-Boy sandwich, Crawfish Boil, Pancakes and Etta’s favorite, Jambalaya. Seafood was quite popular with those in the city. Armand happily munched on crawfish, reminiscing of the times he went fishing with his dad. 

King Cakes were also made as tasty deserts, the figures inside representing baby Jesus. The baked and braided dough was decorated with sugar toppings in yellow, green, and purple. Beside the cake on a plate were little sugar cookies shaped like party masks.

Alastor managed to find the little porcelain baby figure in his piece of cake.

He held it up proudly and declared, “I’m going to be a king when I grow up!”

Masked balls were held for the wealthy inside elaborate ballrooms. Alastor’s mother could only dream of wearing the silk dresses, pearl necklaces and diamond heels of the well-off women. But then she looked at her son and realized she had everything she could ever want. Armand enviously glanced at the ironed suits, canes and top hats of the dancing men inside. Some of the women wore colorful feathered headdresses that gave them the appearance of exotic birds. 

“Hello!” called a little girl to him who stood with her parents. 

Alastor looked to his right. “Hello,” he responded. The girl was wearing a sequined purple dress with a magenta colored bow in her short blonde hair. She had white leggings and silver sparkling shoes. She stared at Alastor with wide curious blue-green eyes against her pale white face. 

“This party sure is fun!” she said in delight. “I especially love all the music, singing and dancing. My mommy and daddy are getting ready for a ball.”

The girl’s parents chatted for a bit then turned to face Alastor’s parents. Both wore fancy clothing and sequined masks over their eyes. Her father was tall and blonde, wearing a silvery suit and dark pants. The mother wore lipstick, sparkly eye shadow and wore an emerald colored dress. She was dripping with diamonds and pearls and surrounding her head were colorful feathers.

“Enchante,” smiled Etta as she shook hands with the wealthy parents. Armand did the same. 

“I’m Abigail Hannigan,” said the woman. “This is my husband, Oliver.” She looked down at her daughter. “And this is my lovely Majorie.” 

“Mommy, it’s Mimzy!” the girl protested. 

“Hardly worthy of being an actual name at all,” countered her mother. Mimzy made a face off to the side, making Alastor snicker under his breath. 

“Etta,” said Etta, “My husband and my son, Alastor.” 

“Nice to meet you. We’re waiting in line to get into the ballroom,” said Abigail. 

“Would you perhaps like to dance and talk with us, while we wait?” Etta asked.

“I don’t see why not,” said Oliver.

Alastor, his parents and the Hannigans moved happily as upbeat jazz the music spread over the city in every direction. They lifted felt the cool night air against their skin. Making sure they had plenty of space, mother and father twirled their laughing son in the air. What a most peculiar sight, seeing a canine stag, a red doe, and their fawn dancing the night away. Several other times, little Alastor and Mimzy chased after each other. 

Etta showed Alastor and Mimzy some basic dance steps and he mimicked her as best as he could. “The Waltz is a timeless classic,” she said to him. “If you’re gonna impress the ladies in the future, you’ll need to…step up your game.” She winked. 

“Lame,” scoffed Armand at her joke before she playfully stuck out her tongue at him in response. 

“It was nice meeting you all,” said Oliver as he and his family made their way into the ballroom. 

“My sister is going to win the Queen title again,” Abigail bragged as she glanced at a few figures sitting in a carriage, waiting for their performance. 

“Bye Al!” called Mimzy, happily waving as she held both her parent’s hands. Alastor smiled and waved back. 

One of Alastor’s favorite parts of Mardi Gras was the Flambeaux. It was a performance done by free men of color and Creoles; they marched down the street and twirled torches. Alastor was enraptured by the dancers but especially by the flames. The mesmerizing light and heat was both exciting and somehow comforting. Armand and Etta tossed quarters to the performers as they enjoyed the show. 

The Moreaus started to head back home, and that’s when they heard them.

Hushed whispers.

Passerby, staring at them, scrutinizing their every move.

Every word, every sentence dug into the trio and hurt like a sharp hot knife.

“Are those the Moreaus? A messed up folk, I’ve heard. Bunch of horny occultists.”

“Why would that Catholic man lower his status to be with some poor colored whore? I’m surprised they haven’t gotten arrested yet! Interracial marriage is illegal.”

“And having a mixed bastard child, too? He’s probably a troubled confused mess.”

“Isn’t that woman a voodoo witch who does black magic and sacrifices? She probably put a love spell on her husband.”

“Ignore them,” mouthed Armand as they passed, gripping his wife’s arm tight so she wouldn’t yell or attack. He lowered his mask over his face and his wife did the same. Mardi Gras was one of the few times during the year that the family truly felt included with the rest of society. They could intermingle with upper class members and share the love of the city’s music and culture. But the good times didn’t “roll” all the time for them. 

Being berated by society just for existing…it was those thoughts that often made the Moreaus doubtful of what they were doing.

Could they keep raising their only son in a world that already hated him?

As if reading Armand’s mind, Etta said, “Don’t listen to them. We must keep going, cher, make do with what we have. It is our duty to raise him to his fullest potential. Ah have a feelin’ that little Alastor is tougher and smarter than he looks.”

Alastor waved happily as a marching band played drums and trumpets past them. “If I Ever Cease to Love” played all around them. Skipping along, he cupped his hands and blew several times from his mouth, imitating a trumpet. A few passerby gave him looks as he made sputtering fart-like noises but he didn’t care. Not even the grotesque looking jester face floats deterred him. 

Etta laughed. “I sense that we’ll have a musician in our family in the future.”

“You may be right,” said Armand. “Let’s be merry tonight, Lent and fasting will be upon us.” 

Alastor smiled as brightly as the gleaming stars above and full moon, thinking to himself, “What a wonderful world!”


	2. Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Smile, though your heart is aching  
> Smile, even though it’s breaking  
> When there are clouds in the sky  
> You’ll get by…”  
> -Nat King Cole

Six years old, nineteen hundred and two

During his spare time, the young Alastor loved to go exploring out in nature. Hiking, swimming and later hunting were some enjoyable activities he grew to love. So naturally, he found the woods and the bayou alike very fascinating. Sometimes in the summer, he would swim in the creek under the watchful eyes of his parents. He would look around for fish and lean back against the small waterfalls pouring from the rocks. Etta laughed as Alastor stomped in the creek, sending water everywhere. 

“My boy, don’t you drink that water!” Etta scolded him, moving his head from the water’s surface. Alastor spotted a frog and splashed after it in swim trunks. Several times he slipped but he got right back up. 

At one point, his father taught him how to fish (though Alastor easily became bored and restless as he waited.) 

“Build up those leg muscles,” Armand called, when Alastor panted after walking up a steep hill on a hike. Though he was tired, it was still lots of fun. Alastor felt more at home in the woods or the swamps than with his peers. 

At night, Alastor and Etta would try to catch fireflies by the bayou. 

“You can catch them. But don’t kill them. Be sure to let them go,” Etta reminded him. Alastor admired the star-like glowing dots hovering around him. Alastor admired one in a jar before watching it fly away when he opened it. A few fireflies hovered by nearby pink roses in bushes. 

“Don’t go in that water!” Etta warned him. “There be dangerous gators in there.” 

Alastor hovered on a rock by the lake’s edge. A low growl was heard. Alastor stepped back just as an alligator head briefly poked above the water before sinking back down. 

Armand took Alastor for a walk through the forest one quiet evening, the golden sun rays peering out through the trees. Their boots made crunching sounds as they stepped over leaves, logs and stray branches. A cool evening breeze gently rustled their hair and caressed their cheeks. Alastor heard a trickling of water and saw a small river carving its way through the ground. Hearing the trickling of water, Alastor briefly fought an urge to use the bathroom. Armand took his son’s hands and helped him over the wet rocks.

“The time and season are important considerations when it comes to hunting,” Armand said. “Deer, for instance, are usually out in the early morning and evening. The fall is the ideal time to hunt deer because, well…they mate.”

“Mate?” asked Alastor.

“They basically run around and help does make more deer babies.”

“Oh.” After a pause, the boy’s grin stretched playfully and he rapidly weaved around the tree trunks, arms spread out. “I’m mating, I’m mating!” he called out as he made silly “ricochet” noises from his cheeks. 

“Not so loud son,” Armand scolded. “You’ll scare the animals away.” 

Alastor stopped beside his father and giggled out loud. 

“Come on, let’s keep going,” Armand said. “Stay where I can see you.” 

“Okay!”

As they walked, Armand showed Alastor how to sneak around on his toes, and hide behind trees and bushes. 

“The more still you are, the better,” Armand explained. “Moving too much creates noise and animals can usually sense where you are.”

Armand pointed to where a few rabbit holes poked out from the ground. Armand demonstrated how to catch an imaginary bunny. “Lay low, look, and then leap. Don’t get too close or too far. Stealth is important because animals almost always can outrun us.” Alastor practiced leaping forward onto old stuffed animals, stumbling to the dirt several times. “Don’t let real rabbits bite your fingers. Their paws can leave scratches on you or kick you hard. When you kill, do it clean and with mercy.” He mimicked the motion of snapping a neck with his hands slightly below him and Alastor flinched. 

“Later on, I’ll show you how to set up traps and trip wires,” Armand explained. “The key is being patient and observant. Be aware of where you are and the sounds around you.”

Alastor looked right and left from behind trees, enjoying a brief game of peek-a-boo with his father. Not too far from the river, Alastor spotted something white poking out from the dirt. He rapidly dug a hole with his fingers and brushed off the object.

“Whoa!” Alastor said, holding it up. His father noticed and walked over behind him. 

“Well I’ll be, it’s a rabbit skull! A lucky find.”

Alastor ran his fingers along the faint black grooves of the bony surface. The bottom part had been broken off but there were a few angular teeth still intact. 

“Can I keep it?”

“Of course.” Armand carefully took the skull and put it in a brown satchel he carried on his back. 

Alastor examined the colorful shells of a few bugs crawling along on the rocks. Rummaging through the satchel, Armand showed Alastor an unmoving beetle pinned to a small card. Alastor took it and said, “Cool! Where’d you get this?”

“At the local museum. I heard you talking a lot about outdoor creatures and it was cheap so…it’s yours.”

“Thank you,” Alastor beamed, examining the card some more. Faint rainbow light reflected off the closed black beetle wings. “Perhaps you can start a collection one day,” Armand suggested.

“Great idea. I bet Mama would like it, too!” 

Armand chuckled. “Did you learn about any animals in first grade?” 

“Oh yes! I learned about them in picture science books. My favorites are the alligator and the snapping turtle!”

“Both fierce and fascinating animals,” said Armand. “Gators often lurk in the bayou waters, always best to keep your distance. You’ll often find deer, rabbits, squirrels and black bear in the woods.” 

After avidly articulating about anatomy and animals, Alastor asked Armand, “Can we play hide and seek, Papa?”

“Sure,” Armand replied, “but don’t go too far. I’ll count to ten.”

Alastor raced off as Armand began to count. Birds chirped happily from the treetops as he went past. He raced past the trees, looking for a log or a big rock to hide behind. The tree trunks around him were too thin to hide behind. The rocks were too small, even for him. Climbing trees was a big no-no. He was rapidly running out of options.

“Ready or not, here I come!” his father called.

Alastor spotted a gray boulder up ahead and ran toward it. But then stopped. A few black birds flew away from behind the rock, the scene eerily quiet. 

He tiptoed to get a closer look. Looking down toward the ground, he spotted a stick…no not a stick. A thin trail of red. He slowly turned the corner and reeled back in shock. 

A half-eaten deer carcass lay lopsided against the other side of the rock. The buck’s eyes were glazed and black and much of the skin was missing. A hawk and some black birds had taken out chunks of it and now a few flies flew down in search of leftovers.

“Alastor, get away from there!”

His father quickly pulled him away from the body and the foul stench. “Sorry you had to witness that,” he said. They quickly walked back. “Many dead animals you find are roadkill. But trust me when I say that venison deer meat is much tastier than it sounds.”

“I’d be willing to try it,” Alastor said as they walked away down the path. 

“Always the adventurous one,” Armand remarked with a smile. 

Later, in the bayou swamps, Alastor watched alligators from a safe distance as they poked out their scaly heads from the water. He was fascinated by how huge their jaws were. Murk and moss surrounded him and a few frogs hopped from one rock to another. Alastor wished he could swim in the lake in the summer with the other kids…the white ones always got the bigger share of the space. Rolling in the rock-filled creeks wasn’t as much fun and the dangerous bayou waters were off limits. 

Suddenly, a green tree frog hopped down from a branch…and a nearby alligator opened its mouth to catch it. The jaws slammed shut and the head lowered with a big splash. Alastor watched in fascination instead of fear. 

Dragonflies weaved around the hanging moss from nearby branches. Their firefly companions were just beginning to arrive. Alastor steered clear of a near invisible black snake that slithered along the mud not too far away. He knew that several snakes including the coral snake and the diamondback were venomous. The green plants and leaves were so numerous that Alastor could barely glimpse at them all. 

“Alastor!” called his mother. “Time for dinner!”

“Coming Mama!”

Alastor trekked through his secret path he made and raced back toward the house. 

“Take off those muddy boots!” Armand reminded him as he came in.

His father had caught a white perch fish and his mother had saved up enough to buy venison meat from a grocery store. 

As Alastor excitedly talked about the songs he had heard during the day, he asked, “Can I have a pet?”

“What would you like?” Armand asked.

“An alligator snapping turtle!”

“Ha! No.” Armand replied. 

They decided to get a cat instead, a black and white cat named Mick. Alastor loved cats and he loved dogs too. But he was mostly a cat person. Unlike dogs, cats didn’t bark loudly or jump on him. The cat he had was shy and did his own thing, but Alastor loved to pet and carry him whenever he could, much to the cat’s dislike. But every so often, the cat would purr contently on Alastor’s lap or rub against his legs. 

Alastor’s room now had rows of bugs on pins for him to admire. With musical promotional posters hung up on the walls and a large lit up mirror, his room looked like a combination of a museum and a backstage theater. Next to the rabbit skull he found, a few straw dolls perched on one part of a dresser for good luck. 

Seven years old, nineteen hundred and three

Later on, Armand tried to teach Alastor how to play baseball. But Alastor always seemed to have trouble catching the ball with the mitt. And when he swung the ball with the bat, it would sail off haphazardly into the air. 

Armand sighed. “I was already getting the hang of sports when I was your age.”

Alastor felt bad for disappointing his father, but sports and roughhousing with boys simply wasn’t his thing. 

He much preferred musicals and using his imagination. The many fantasy scenes he could create were endless in his mind. Knights, pirates, witch doctors, even angels and demons could be part of his plays. He’d set up small cardboard stages in the yard or sometimes in his room. His mother would always clap and cheer for him. Although a few other kids would join him, more and more peers were into sports or gossip as time went on. 

When he walked to school one day, a girl about his age was chasing a canary through the lawns and down the sidewalk. The bird darted into the trees, out of her reach. She wore a small magenta dress with a bow in her hair and small black shoes on her feet. Her hair was short and blonde, her eyes bluish green against her pale face. 

“Tweet, tweet!” she called to another bird who was digging in the grass for a worm. She stopped and stared at Alastor with wide eyes.

“Hello!” she smiled. “Have I seen you before?”

“Hello,” Alastor smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, at Mardi Gras. Mimzy, was it?”

She nodded. “Well hello again. You here to listen to the birds too?”

“Sure I guess, but I’m on my way to school,” he said.

“Mother’s taking me to piano practice,” she said. “I’ll learn how to sing for the first time!”

She let out a few off-key notes which scared the nearby birds away. Alastor snickered silently. 

“Majorie!” a woman’s voice called. The well-dressed blonde haired woman hurried along behind them. She was dressed in a pink dress with a matching lacy hat. “There you are!” She picked her child up and walked on. “You know you’re not supposed to be wandering off like that.”

She looked down at the young Alastor with narrowed eyes. “Especially not with those colored kids.”

Alastor just stood there perplexed. It was like the previous nice lady he had met during the party no longer existed. 

Majorie/Mimzy looked back at Alastor over her mother’s shoulders and smiled, “Bye friend!”

Alastor waved half-heartedly back before continuing on toward the school building. 

Young Alastor was seven years old, now in third year. Elementary school would last eight years, followed by four years of high school. He wore blue pants, brown shoes, and a tan buttoned shirt. A checkered hat was on his head. The clothing felt tighter than his usual loose outfits he wore at home.

In a line, Alastor followed his classmates into the room. The large classroom was full of wooden desks in rows, the ones with small chairs attached to them. A larger taller desk for the teacher stood near a large blackboard that took up much of the white wall. A round white clock with black numbers hung higher from a wall off to the right.

He took a seat beside other children around his age toward the front of the room. The older kids in the higher grades sat toward the back and the little kids sat at the front. The older kids had the privilege of being near the windows. The class had mostly black students, the few students with whiter skin were there because of the “one drop” rule. 

“Alright, settle down everyone. We’ll get started here shortly,” said a voice.

In walked the teacher, a graying black skinned woman wearing a long yellow skirt, black shoes, leggings, and a plain white top with blue trim around the edges.

She wrote her name on the board, “Miss Handerson,” and began the lessons. The older kids took out their pencils and notebooks. Alastor had several pieces of plain white lined paper in front of him.

Miss Handerson went over many topics: literature, history, writing and math. Alastor sketched drawings of deer in boredom. 

The teacher handed out worksheets for the students to complete. Alastor struggled with the harder problems.

She talked to the older students. “Don’t forget that in order to go to high school, you’ll have to complete the entrance exam. It consists of geometry, algebra, multiple choice questions and short essays. Be sure to know your history, too. It’s administered in eighth year, so be sure to study hard.”

None of the stuff he learned appeared to be relevant as time went on. It was memorization of historic dates, random math problems and interpreting texts. Shakespeare was the worst. Half the time, he couldn’t understand the Old English language. And the part where Romeo and Juliet fell in love before killing themselves in despair…it was all balderdash, to him. Why couldn’t the lovers team up and run away from their parents?

He blurted out how stupid an assigned book was. It was filled with racist imagery and boring facts he deemed insulting.

The class erupted in laughter. All except the teacher and several other students who shook their heads.

Alastor was dragged to the front of the desk and made to hold out his hand.

He cried out when the stick hit his palm. Once, twice, three times.

“Have anything else to say?” she asked, eyes stern. Alastor was silent, clutching his cut hand. He shook his head.

“Back to your seat.”

Alastor ignored all the eyes trained on him.

Class was finally over and after sitting by himself at recess, he eagerly followed his class into the auditorium. Theater and music were his favorite classes, and continued to be throughout his years. The theater teacher was a jolly dark man with a head of dark hair, glasses and a thin grayish beard.

Alastor and his classmates took turns in different roles: led singers, background dancers, lighting crew, prop makers, costume organizers. Alastor even got to play the saxophone, (even though he played out of tune, he still enjoyed it.) The class practiced standing in a line and bowing at the same time to an invisible audience in their seats. From an early age, Alastor wasn’t afraid of being in the spotlight; he relished every chance he could get.

However, there was one activity that he dreaded even more than math: Gym.

His sports uniforms were a bit big on him. He wore a red jersey with the number twenty four on the back in black numbers. He could dribble a basketball just fine…it was the pushing and the shoving from the others that got to him.

Third year boys against fourth year boys. It wasn’t going to end well.

The basketball was soon stolen from him in the blink of an eye by a burly haired fourth grader. “Nerd!” he blurted out before running down the court. Alastor ran to keep up, dashing in between the fourth graders. One of the boys kept shoving Alastor to the floor. The tall boy jumped and landed a slam dunk. Cheering followed from the bleachers.

The coach blew his whistle and announced the final score. “Fourth years six, third years two.” The third years groaned in their defeat.

“Losers have to run a mile,” the coach said. “Hop to it, boys!” Alastor and his classmates raced around a dirt track outside. It was the beginning of autumn and the sun was still deadly hot. No merciful cool breeze to aide him along the way.

His uniform clung to his skin as he huffed and puffed.

“Don’t stop, Alastor!” yelled the coach. “You’ve got forty minutes left!”

Alastor yelled in frustration, tripped on a rock and collapsed from exhaustion. His gym report card wasn’t good.

But the worst part of school was the bullying. All of a sudden, Alastor saw his new classmates turning against him. 

One girl walked past him in the hall and snatched away one of his drawings.

“Hey, give it back!” Alastor called. The girl had brown hair in pigtails and pale skin. Alastor wore a white shirt with suspenders, blue pants and shoes.

“Look guys, I got Al’s secret drawings!” she called, holding the wrinkled piece of paper for everyone to see.

Alastor had drawn himself as a red fawn with black eyes.

“Aw how cute!” said the girl, “He wants to be deer when he grows up!”

A few boys chanted, “Dirty deer, dirty deer,” the insults ringing in his ears. They added deer like “Baa” sounds, one guy getting into his face and making animal noises. 

“Oh, are those flowers, too?” the girl asked, peering at the drawing. Alastor’s cheeks grew red in embarrassment. It was the first time he had seen a female look at him in disgust. “Never thought you were an ethel, Al.”

“Leave me alone!”

The girl blocked his way, doing dance-like moves whenever Alastor tried to walk past. A few other kids pointed and laughed, surrounding Alastor from behind him.

Alastor shoved her out of the way, stomping through the door. There was a low chorus of “Ooohs” and growls. The girl glanced in disbelief after being hit. A few sticks and pebbles hit Alastor in the back. He glanced and saw two light brown boys giggling and ducking behind a fence. Scowling, the boy trekked on, thinking the day couldn’t get worse.

“Hey look!” drawled an older boy as Alastor walked along the path toward home. The leader blonde boy wore a baseball cap with the Ku Klux Klan insignia on it and was flanked by two of his white friends. “It’s that chocolate boy from the other school.”

The towering fourth years stood in front of Alastor.

“Let me pass,” he said, inwardly shaking in fear.

“Pass gas?” asked one of the lackeys, letting out a chuckle. He had big muscles, an orange shirt and curly black hair. 

“Or maybe he means pass out by how filthy he is,” added the second lackey. The boys dramatically waved their hands in front of them.

“Close your heads, bozos!” Alastor fired back. 

The leader white boy gave him a shove. “Mulattos don’t talk to us like that. Careful, ya might get lynched when you’re older. I think ya need to clean that mouth and your body, too.”

Alastor tried to run off, but one of the lackey’s gripped his arms.

“Let go! Let’s go!” he struggled. The leader boy scooped up some mud from the ground and smeared it onto his face. He got into Alastor’s face with a cruel smirk. “Hey Chocolate Boy, rub off all that dirt why don’t you?”

Alastor shook his head and spat some mud into the boy’s face. The boy growled and rammed a fist into his eye. Alastor cried out as a sudden barrage of kicks and punches assaulted him. He found himself yelling out, curled into a ball as the boys laughed and pounded him into the ground. One of the boys scratched his skin hard, chanting, “Rub it off! Rub it off!” He felt drops of spit drop into his matted brown hair. After what seemed like forever, the boys were satisfied and left him. 

Alastor picked himself up with shaking legs, gathering what was left inside of his satchel. Bruises dotted his legs and his face was swollen and red. His hair looked like a rat’s nest. He sniffled and sobbed as he slowly made his way home.

Etta had finished wiping down the kitchen counters. She gasped when she saw her battered son in the kitchen doorway. She was wearing a bright red dress, her favorite color. 

“Al! What on earth happened to you? Come see.”

Alastor nervously stepped forward when she beckoned him over.

Alastor started downcast, hesitant to answer. “Well, I…I was walking along…the hallway, there were several kids around, being very annoying, and they’ve been annoying for several days…” He stuttered on and on in whimpers.

“Kreyol pale, Kreyol konprann,” Etta said, “Get to the point.”

Alastor sighed. “I got into a fight.”

“Oh no, why?” she asked, hands on her hips. 

“The other kids were calling me names, one threw sticks at me. And these mean boys…they did this to me…I tried to fight back and get away…” He sobbed again, tears falling down. His satchel lay forgotten on the tile floor. 

“That’s horrible,” she said, her dark face in a cringe. She picked him up and placed him on a chair. “Wait here. I’ll get you fixed up.” 

Alastor sat as Etta filled up a bowl of soapy water and wrung out a washcloth. She bent down and gently dabbed at the swollen areas. 

“They…they called me dirty and useless,” Alastor whimpered. “Is that true?” 

“Never! Of course not,” Etta exclaimed. She wiped away the caked dirt on Alastor’s face. 

“I…I also shoved a girl out of the way,” Alastor said, arms crossed. “She took my drawing.”

“You know you are never supposed to hit a girl or a woman,” Etta chided, “Even if she was mean. It’s important that you be polite and a gentlemen toward the opposite gender. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Alastor said softly, relaxing his arms.

“Good. Listen when I say that you are a pure and amazing person inside and out. Don’t let their insults deter you.”

“Will I ever succeed in life?”

“Piti piti zwazo fe nich li. Little by little, you will make progress. You’re doing so well with your schoolwork so far. When life tries to bring you down, you gotta smile and show your confidence.” She wiped away stray tears from her son’s eyes.

She finished cleaning up Alastor. “No more fights, ya hear me? I want you to stay safe, choose your battles wisely.” He nodded, still downcast.

“You’re never fully dressed without a smile, dear,” Etta said. Her features were warm and comforting, and Alastor was slowly forgetting the previous incident. Alastor’s eyes shone brighter when she gave him a gentle hug. After a few moments of rest, Etta led Alastor into the living room, before walking over to a gramophone. The gramophone needle scratched at a black vinyl and soft jazz began to play. She walked over to Alastor. 

“I think it’s a good time for us to have our private fais-do-do. You up for it?”

Alastor brightened. Although he was getting older, he still enjoyed dancing with her whenever he could. Bonding times with his mother were special moments to be treasured. 

Etta held out her hand. “May I have this dance, sugar?” A small grin appeared on the boy’s face; he enjoyed song and dance more than anything. 

Alastor took his mother’s hand and she looked down at him with a loving expression. “When you’re smilin’, the whole world smiles with you,” she sang. “And when you laugh, keep on laughing, the sun comes shinin’ through.” She then sang in a melodious voice as she guided her son around the room.

“Smile even though you’re aching  
Smile even when you feel you’re breaking  
When you’re feeling blue, you’ll get through”

“Just put on a grin  
When the fears and tears begin  
Your day clouded with sorrow  
Just look forward to tomorrow”

“Leave behind your sadness  
And embrace the gladness  
When you’re vulnerable and stressed  
Smile and you’ll be fully dressed  
Smile and you’ll be fully dressed”

By the time the song ended, Alastor’s smile had fully returned. He laughed when she tickled him and rubbed his head affectionately. “Now there’s my sweet little boy!”

They walked back toward the kitchen. 

“My, my! All that dancin’ has made me hungry,” Etta exclaimed. “Have ya ever tried jambalaya before?”

“Jam what?” Alastor asked. 

“Jambalaya. It’s a delicious mixture of foods. I have a special recipe for it. I think I remember givin’ you a spoonful at Mardi Gras once. Good old Jambalaya.”

Alastor laughed. “That’s a funny name!”

“It is, ain’t it? And it don’t even have jam in it. Would you like to help me make it?”

Alastor’s eyes lit up. “Yes Mama, I’d love to!”

“Go wash your hands,” she said. “You can help me cut the meat and vegetables.” 

First, Etta put a pot over one of the old black stove holders. She turned the stove to medium heat and put oil in the pot. She went over to a plastic cutting board on a table and showed Alastor how to cut up the andouille sausage and chicken.

“Careful now,” she said, handing him a smaller knife.

Chop, chop chop.

“Nice job,” she said. 

Etta poured in a box of New Orleans rice and water into the pan. Both of them chopped and diced tomatoes, green onions, celery, a regular onion and two bell peppers, red and yellow. Etta emphasized the holy trinity of vegetables: onion, peppers and celery. The rice, tomatoes, and vegetables were later added together in the pan, which was simmered to low. Finally, lovely pink shrimp from the icebox was added and cooked for several minutes. Old Bay seasoning and oregano were also added. Along with shrimp, chicken and sausage, the leftover bits of venison were added, too. 

Etta soon turned off the stove. They used a wooden spoon to serve themselves the delicious looking Creole dish. The gumbo was scooped onto plates and they sat at the wooden dining room table.

A melodious aroma of flavor reached Alastor’s nostrils: the smell of tomato sauce, tangy baked chicken, the kick of various herbs and spices. Alastor scooped up some jambalaya and put it into his mouth.

It was a taste of Heaven. A flare of exotic flavor, backed by the restless heat of sauce, and a velvety texture…all made to excite the taste buds and fill the stomach. It would be Alastor’s favorite comfort food for many years to come. His body almost seemed to glow as more food fell down his trap.

Alastor soon licked his plate clean…literally.

“Al! Not at the table, please.”

“Sorry,” he said, happiness in his eyes, putting the plate down. “That was the best meal ever!”

Etta laughed. “I’m so glad.”

Alastor and his mother embraced before gathering the plates and moving toward the sink. Alastor passed the dishes to her as she cleaned them. The pan, pots and silverware were soon clean and left to dry on towels. 

“Maybe someday, you’ll get to make it on your own.”

“That would be fun!”

“You know Louisiana Crawfish Etouffee?” Etta asked. It was a dish with thick sauce with shrimp and shellfish served over rice. “It’s another one of my favorite dishes, similar to jambalaya. I’ll teach ya how to make that one next time.”

Alastor cheered. He then frowned when he glanced at his unopened textbook in his bag.

“Go get started on your homework,” Etta grinned, noticing his bag. “And remember to smile on through.”

Jambalaya stayed with Alastor as time went on. In fact, he remembered another day when his mother made jambalaya. He had walked into the kitchen and found several empty bottles of Southern Comfort on the kitchen table.

“Hiya mah boy!” she greeted in a drunken haze. “Imma show ya how to make da best jumbo gumbo dis side of New Orleans.”

Etta walked over to the frying pan where she dumped shrimp, rice, sausage, and diced vegetables into it. The food sizzled.

Alastor stared at it. “Uh, Mama…I think you’re supposed to cook them separately first.”

“It’s called jumbo-lya for a reason,” she drawled randomly. “You know, ‘cause Cajun chefs always lie!” She laughed at her joke.

Alastor repeated the joke out loud. “What do you call a Cajun foodie who never tells the truth? A Jamba-lya! Hohohoho! Good one!”

Etta sang off-key out loud as she stirred in the mixture. Smoke rose from the pan.

She gasped aloud. “Ya know what this needs?! Ah almost forgot!”

She opened the cabinet doors and rummaged around for something. After not finding what she was looking for, she raced into the living room. Armand’s gun rested in an open safe in a long drawer. In another drawer was a cloth bag. She dipped her hand into it, then walked back to the kitchen.

“Ah found it!” she declared.

“Found what?” Alastor asked.

“Da essential ingredient that Papa Legba ordered!"

She moved over to the frying pan, Alastor looking with wide eyes. She released her hand and a shower of a light gray substance landed into the food.

Gunpowder.

A sizzling of smoke, a show of sparks and then…

Ka-boom!

The jambalaya in the pan exploded into her face in a fiery blast. The force of it sent the woman backwards to the floor.

"Mama!"

Alastor quickly turned the stove off and stared down at her. The commotion sent Armand running toward the kitchen from down the hall.

Etta was screaming and clutching her charred face. Her hands were blackened as well. 

Armand carried his wife over to the bathroom to wash up her face. After he was done comforting her, he sat down on his chair and took sips from a nearby beer bottle. An opened letter was in his hands, familiar elegant handwriting was on it. He read the last line:

“We’ll see you at the start of October, son. Don’t make our visit disappointing.”

For the last several days, his father had not interacted with his son as usual. The most he would do would be curt nods or grunts. He had even considered going to his church every day, not just on Sundays. (Etta went to a “colored” church by the bayou where she would take Alastor. They would sing songs about the Heavenly Father out loud and spread positivity.) 

Alastor looked on with concern, not knowing why his father was acting so strange. 

He heard Etta slowly walk from the bathroom over to him. 

“Is everything alright?” she asked, pressing a washcloth to her face. Etta also found his behavior quite unusual.

“Don’t want to talk about it,” he simply said. His brown eyes stared off into space, worries in his head. He had a blank expression on his face. 

“I’ll be here if you need me, then.”

Etta later went to a doctor and her face healed over time. She had survived the ordeal, but found it frustrating that only a few offices would accept those like her. 

Curiosity then overtook Alastor as he went back into the kitchen. With a spoon, he reached up and scooped up some sizzled gunpowder topped jambalaya. He took a taste of it and his face turned red. He swallowed the spicy substance and his eyes watered.

He laughed as his tongue burned. "This kick is straight outta Hell!" he declared. He promptly finished up the rest…and had a stomach ache that lasted the rest of the day.

That night, he dreamt that he was a red fawn who performed on stage in a land called Zoophobia. He was going to a much better school called “Zoo Phoenix Academy.” No taunts, no remarks…just admiration. A teacher who resembled a parrot gave him a thumbs up. Another furry creature played a piano as several spotlights shone over his head. There were four other deer with fur coats the colors of the four seasons who were backup dancers. He did magic tricks and breathed fire from his mouth as his audience applauded. “Deer man! Deer man!” they cheered. The dream was over far too soon. A peaceful smile stayed on his face as he slept.


	3. I Ain't Gonna Tell Nobody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inside of every human is a sinner

Eighteen ninety five  
Armand was busy in the woods, chopping and sawing at logs of wood. He carefully measured them, making sure they were even. Using both hands, he stacked them up in a pile, sweat coating his short slanted brown hair. Despite his slender build, he was stronger than he looked. Once he was finished, he headed back toward home. His day job was a carpenter, nothing very exciting. He would mostly help with blueprints and organizing the wooden structures of houses and buildings. With hurricanes often threatening to loom, his expertise in construction enabled him to live a fairly decent life. 

However, Armand much preferred his involvement with the church and his hobbies of hunting and taxidermy. Every winter in the woods, he would mercifully kill deer, rabbits, and squirrels (He once took down a black bear). He would proudly display his animal heads up at the cabin and sell them to other hunters or anyone who wanted them. Before his marriage to Etta, he was one of the managers of the largest hunting businesses in New Orleans. It was back when his parents had said that he could be anyone he wanted to be. Eugene and Manette were originally from France before they immigrated to the southern U.S. in search of a new life. Armand had a younger sister, Abigail, but fell out of touch with her over the years. 

Armand was born and raised in Louisiana…and he settled in quite well. He had a group of great friends, including his rich friend, Edward. Edward had a mop of blonde hair and bangs over his eyes. He had a fondness for basketball and spicy food; he liked to tease Armand by offering him green chili peppers to which Armand would always decline. The men would go to bars, moderately drink and discuss sports, stocks and the news. Having been raised as a Christian, Armand vowed to remain faithful and on his best behavior. But over time, he grew bored. He began to seek adventure, some kind of new change. Perhaps that’s why meeting Etta for the first time was so exciting…so forbidding. The little kid and the rebel inside him had awakened. After Armand fell in love and changed his lifestyle, Edward was one of the few to stay by his side. 

It wasn’t long before the two decided to run off and get married. With the help of Etta’s relatives, they hosted their secret wedding at a church near the bayou in the late evening. Lit white candles were positioned at every corner, giving the spacious chamber a magical feel. Armand could remember his wife’s beautiful face after her white veil was lifted. He felt bad that he didn’t invite his parents but he knew that it was too risky. Stain glass images of Catholic saints peered down at the couple as the setting sun turned the sky a brilliant orange. Were they praising him or judging him? 

“I now pronounce you, husband and wife, you may kiss the bride,” said the dark skinned officiant just before the two kissed. Etta’s family cheered and applauded. Armand felt out of place and a bit overwhelmed…he was used to being around people who shared his skin color. 

Not long after, Armand knew he and Etta would have to move further away from the city. Word of their union had already gotten out even before they finished packing their belongings. They moved to a small suburban area, to a house surrounded by wilderness from behind it. They also had their cabin in the woods as another retreat. 

Undoubtedly, the day came when Armand’s parents found out as well. Armand was working out front when he heard the rolling of wheels down the street and up the dirt path toward the house. 

“High-hats,” Armand muttered.

“Hello Armand,” said Eugene, sitting next to his wife. 

“Mother, Father, hello!” Armand called, putting on his biggest smile. 

The couple got out of their horseless carriage. Eugene straightened his black top hat on his head, wearing a brown tailcoat and matching pants. He held a cane topped with a lion head design in his hand. He helped his wife down, her sky blue dress reflecting sunlight. Both of them started to have gray streaks in their hair. Eugene’s hair was a darker shade of brown than Armand’s while his wife was blonde. “We’ve come by to see how you’re doing…why’d you move out here?”

“Oh, just wanted a change of scenery,” Armand casually said, pushing up his thin glasses on his pale face. He adjusted his black bow tie on his white buttoned shirt. “Wanted to be closer to nature, is all.”

“Oh how wonderful,” Eugene said. “Perhaps we can head on over to the creek and do some fishing, like old times, huh?”

“I’d love to see your new house,” Manette smiled. “Thanks to several passerby, we finally managed to find you.” 

“Oh, that’s sounds fun and all, but now isn’t really the best time…”

Just then, a pregnant Etta came out, wearing a bright yellow dress. Her hair was frazzled in wild black curls. “Army,” she called. “I’ve been feelin’ dizzy again, maybe a glass of water could help?”

A panicked look spread to Armand’s face. Armand turned around and mouthed for her to go back inside. 

Etta noticed the older couple and waved, ignoring Armand’s shaking head. She walked out of the house and beside her husband. “Hello there. Enchante,” she said holding out her hand. Manette tentatively took it while Eugene looked on.

“Who is this lady?” Eugene asked, suspicious.

“Oh just a friend,” Armand began at the same time Etta said, “I’m his lovely wife.” 

There was a brief tense silence.

“Armand, cher, you never told us you were married,” mentioned Manette. “Is that true?"

“Oui,” he said. There was no point in lying now. 

“Well, that does explain some things,” she said, a narrowing of her eyes. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Armand said. 

Eugene glanced down at Etta’s large belly. “Is she…”

“Yes,” Armand declared. “Etta and I…we’re going to have a family.”

Eugene and Manette were flabbergasted. “What?” asked his father, unsure of what to say. It was like his son had sprouted another head. 

“Armand…we raised you better than this,” said his mother. “You’re telling me that you just decided to give up your life, to live with some…pro skirt stranger?” There was a hint of venom in her words.

“Well excuse me for being such an intrusion,” Etta glared, her fierce nature coming out. Armand held her back with a hand.

“Having a bastard spawn of sin behind our backs no less?!” Eugene said, appalled. “Are you off the deep end? That was not God’s intended plan for you.”

“Maybe it was,” Armand challenged. “I love her. Yes, she’s black and poor, but I love her. You said I could do whatever I wanted.”

“Within reasonable limits,” Eugene said.

“Your child shouldn’t even be born,” Manette added. “If you have any sense in you, you’ll abort it and divorce her. Better yet, send it to an orphanage after her pregnancy.”

Etta snarled in their faces and swore in Creole. Armand puffed his chest up, looking intimidating even with his slender body. He gently pushed Etta back and pointed into Manette’s chest. “Listen here, Mother, I don’t know what your problem is, but there’s no need to be so rude.”

Eugene gripped his son’s arm, and pushed it away from Manette. 

“You’re the one in need of a better direction,” said Eugene to Armand. “You don’t even know where’s she’s been or who else she’s slept with…”

“Callin’ me a whore you dirty sack of…”

Eugene cut an angry Etta off, “Listen to me. There’s already some nasty talk going on in the city. When they hear that one of the most respected hunter managers let himself be led astray by a ni…”

Slap!

The slap was instinctual. Armand had cut him off from saying a horrible term. Eugene rubbed his cheek and glared at him. He leaned in menacingly, “…you’ll lose your job and status on the spot. Ya follow?”

Armand’s eyebrows rose, pupils constricting in fear. He shook his head a few times as he stepped back. “No, I won’t let that happen.”

“If you stay with her,” warned Eugene, “then it will.”

“Come with us,” said Manette. “We’ll fix this mess together, right now.”

“But, my wife…”

“What about her?” Manette said. “She can go to refuge or a center to help with her birth.” 

Armand knew that many of the “centers” were run of the mill places with little sanitation or resources. And he sure wasn’t going to lock up his future child. 

Manette put a hand on his shoulder as Etta looked off sadly to the side. “We’re doing this for you own good. There are plenty of other amazing women who would love to spend time with you. Etta and her child will be alright, so please…”

She held out her gloved hand. “…do this for us.”

Armand stared at it, tentatively reaching out his own hand. What if they were right? What if he was an unexperienced man making a grave mistake? Rushing head–first into a forbidden love? His parents said that they knew what was best for him…and that God knew before he was even born. 

Armand flanked at Etta’s doe-eyes, which were watering with tears. No. He couldn’t leave her…he wouldn’t. He couldn’t live with himself if he never saw her again. He now had a duty to fulfill as a father. 

He dismissed her and pulled back his hand. 

“Only when Hell itself freezes over.” 

“So be it,” Manette finished, turning on her heels. Armand gave Etta a comforting side hug and watched as his father glared accusingly at him. “This isn’t over son,” he warned. “We’ll give you some time to think about it. Your consequences will be your doing.” 

With that, the well-off couple climbed back into the carriage and rolled away. 

“Oh cher,” said Etta. “I thought that you would…”

“I know they’re my parents,” he said, “But you are now the most important in my life right now.”

“Your job though…”

“I’ll go talk to Edward. He helps support a local construction company and he’s got mazuma to help him get by. I’ll find a way.”

Etta embraced him, gratitude on her face and Armand knew he had done the right thing. Still, a strange clawing of guilt made him restless for several days afterward. 

Nineteen hundred and one

Every insult stung like a sharp knife. Those where were formerly his friends now didn’t want to be anywhere near him. The festivities of Mardi Gras became background noise in comparison to those wrenching thoughts. 

“I think that man should be arrested or put away. Surprised their child is still out there.”

“Associating with riff-raff, I don’t know who he thinks he is.”

“His poor parents must be ashamed.”

Armand hadn’t contacted his parents in years. He would get letters from them, always the same: “How are you faring, Armand? I hope you’ve learned you lesson. We’ll visit you once you’ve changed your mind.”

“We love you son and are concerned for you. For the love of Jesus and the Holy Spirit, please answer us back.” 

It seemed that even the Holy Trinity had forgotten about Armand. His boss had fired him on the spot once he found out that he had been married to a woman of color. He had a sneaking suspicion that it was his father who had spilled the beans. What was worse was rumors of Eugene donating money to the Ku Klux Klan. Armand was still a very skilled hunter but it wasn’t quite the same anymore. Being a carpenter wasn’t anything exciting but it was something for him to do. His life flooded with one question after another. 

Armand was reminded of his and his family’s sins every morning. He felt it was his duty to try and correct things as much as he could. Armand started to criticize others for drinking (though he sometimes drank heavily at night). He berated those who mistreated others (but started to hit Alastor and Etta when they weren’t behaving, leaving them with bruises.) Armand claimed he was doing all he could for his wife and son (yet found himself fantasizing about young blonde dames in bed with him). Some people gradually treated him with respect like before, but it wasn’t enough. 

It was never enough. 

Because those people weren’t his parents, they weren’t his wife and they certainly weren’t God. Armand may have gotten along with Alastor for a time, but eventually, the boy became just another male that had decided to intrude on his life. At the very least, Armand could teach the kid how to run, hunt, skin animals and how to defend himself. It was already disgraceful that the boy was getting involved with cooking, sewing and rituals…he’d turn into a woman before long!

What else was there for Armand to do but to live out his predestined purpose? Armand had figured it out after praying and self-reflection. 

He wrote to his parents, begging for their approval. Nothing that he did seemed to be enough in their eyes. 

Nineteen hundred and three

“We’ll see you at the start of October, son. Don’t make our visit disappointing.”

When Armand’s parents said they were going to do something, there was no stopping them. For the first time, Armand didn’t acknowledge Alastor or the things he chatted on about. He was focused on making things as presentable as possible. Etta spent much of the day cooking a meal and cleaning the house. 

“Stand up straight,” Armand told Alastor. “Be polite, don’t speak out of turn. No chatting until dinner ends, got it?”

Alastor nodded. The Moreaus were dressed in the best clothes they had; the outfits felt a little tighter than usual. 

There they stood at the door, staring down at little Alastor like something gross got on their shoes. Eugene stood in a dark tailcoat and top hat, lion cane in his hand. Manette was in a dark green satin dress with a matching round ladies hat with abnormally large fake flowers on top. Manette drew out smoke from a cigarette, the ember briefly glowing against the evening sky. Alastor stepped back from the imposing figures.

“Welcome to my home,” Armand said with a forced smile. 

“Those are my grandparents?” he mouthed to Armand.

“Hush,” he scolded.

“That is their son?” Manette mouthed to Eugene. “I thought he was sent to the orphanage.”

“You know I’d never to something so despicable,” Etta said, arms crossed. 

“Does he…at least know the Bible passages and psalms?” Eugene asked. 

“We’re getting there,” Armand replied, a firm hand on Alastor’s shoulders. “Right?”

“Yes…sir,” Alastor added nervously after Armand silently cleared his throat to him. 

Armand mouthed to Etta, “Go get things ready.” There was a cold bitter tension in the room that made Alastor’s skin crawl. He wanted nothing more than to hug his mother and escape. Ignoring all the harsh remarks on his appearance from Manette, Alastor robotically helped Etta set the table and sat down. 

Alastor picked at his peas, brisket and potatoes as the adults talked. Mostly they argued. At one point, Manette said to Armand, “If you ever want to do us a favor, you’ll teach your son some proper behavior.” She didn’t seem to care that Etta was in the same room. 

“Cher,” Armand said to Etta, “Bring me another beer.”

“Can’t ya get it yourself?”

“Just do it.”

After a surprised look and a sigh, Etta silently stood up and placed a can of beer in front of him. Alastor narrowed his eyes. There was a foreign look in his father’s eyes that he had never seen before. A look of fatigue and helplessness…and a newfound darkness. 

When dessert came, Alastor felt even more disgusted. A chocolate covered strawberry was placed in front of him. Everyone else ate theirs. 

“Come on, Al, try it,” Etta encouraged.

Alastor crossed his arms. 

His father gave him a warning look, so Alastor slowly put the strawberry into his mouth. The sweetness was sickening. His brown eyes twitched, his cheeks full. 

“I will not lose my second job,” Armand declared to his parents. “I have a duty to fulfill.”

“Then fulfill it,” Eugene demanded, “and put dignity back in our name.”

Armand could divorce his wife and reclaim his status faster over time. But he wasn’t ready for that yet, mentally and emotionally. If he couldn’t divorce her, he could at least play the role that was expected of him. 

Better yet, play it too well. 

“Cher, you don’t have to listen to them…” Etta began but Armand held up a hand. “I might as well get started,” he said. “Alastor will learn how to be a proper man from now on.” Alcohol churned in his body and mind. He turned to his son, “What do you have to say for yourself, boy?” 

Alastor gagged and spat out the strawberry right onto his plate. 

“Disgusting,” Manette muttered. “If I had a right mind, I’d give the kid a whippin.’”

“That’s my son you’re talkin’ about,” Etta spat.

“Antoinette,” Armand began as Etta stood up. Alastor looked on, fearfully. 

“You two ungrateful high-hats have ruined things long enough. Get outta my house, now!”

“It’s my house,” Armand said to her, “and as of now, I make the rules.” Armand couldn’t stop himself. The brief approval in his father’s eyes was enough. 

Manette shoved Etta, who then growled out loud and slapped her. Etta clawed at Manette’s dress as the older lady shouted racist terms. Armand pulled his wife off of her, gripping her arms hard. She fought against him but he suddenly slapped her hard. 

“Stop it, Papa!” 

“Stay outta this…”

Without thinking, Alastor grabbed the can of beer and splashed it all over his father. He sputtered and stared at him in anger. “You little brat!”

Etta freed herself from his grip, staring at Alastor.

“Alastor! Go to your room!”

“But Mama!”

“Now! I’ll handle this.”

Tears sprang from Alastor’s eyes as he stomped upstairs. 

“Why I never,” Manette scoffed, standing up.

“Let’s go,” Eugene said, leading his wife out the door. He turned back to Armand, briefly gripping him by the shirt collar before letting go. “Consider yourself estranged from this family. I don’t want to see you again until you’ve proven you can handle them…and yourself.”

The door slammed on Armand, his head downcast, fighting tears. He turned to see his wife, staring at him in disbelief.

“Are you trying to crush our dreams, Armand?”

“What? I’m only changing things for us.”

She folded her arms, “For us or for you? I thought I knew you. My family welcomed you with open arms, and this is how you decide to act?”

“It’s more complicated than that. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh I think I do. You just want to please your parents and get your old life back. Am I not good enough for you now?”

“You’ve always been more than enough. I can’t imagine living life without you.”

“So you say,” she muttered. 

Armand scowled. “From now on, no more mumbo-jumbo voodoo and no more bossing me around.” 

Etta reeled back from the alcohol on his breath. “I want my husband back.”

“I am your husband,” he said. “You best not forget it.” He stomped out of the dining room and slammed the door to his bedroom. Etta wiped tears from her eyes before cleaning up the table. 

Armand had promised himself not to indulge in any sin. Now here he was, rejected by his parents, berated by his wife. 

“What have I done?”

Etta was spending more and more time with Alastor…it was like he hardly existed. All he heard his wife talk about these days was about how special Alastor was and half the time, she was referencing the times she did peculiar rituals and songs.

“What’s so special about that smart-mouthed kid?” Armand asked himself as warmth and dizziness crept over him.

Maybe he needed a new sexy wife and a new job. Starting again would surely work out. But more than ever, he needed another beer, his mouth was parched dry. Black spots danced across his vison and he let out a gargled laugh and sob. He brought his white hands to his face. 

No. He would show his parents that they were wrong about him. He would go to church each day, keep his family in line, reclaim the status he had lost. 

He stared up in a stupor-like gaze at a golden Christian cross hung on the wall nearby…he knew he was doing and thinking the right thing…before he promptly crashed onto his bed.


	4. When The Saints Go Marching In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We are all traveling in the footsteps  
> Of those who’ve gone before  
> And we’ll all be reunited  
> On that new and sunlit shore”  
> – Bruce Springsteen

Nineteen hundred and three  
Many years ago, Antoinette Loretta Duvalier was born to her two African American parents. Her father, Mathis was a jazz musician and a bokor, a sorcerer in Haitian Vodou rituals. Her mother was Odette, a kind deaf old woman with a feisty nature about her. She was a mambo and the lost twin sister of the legendary blind Mama Odie. It was rumored that both sisters had interacted with Marie Laveau in their long lifetimes. As to how they managed to live so long, no one really knew. Both had Native American ancestors and had been in the U.S. during the Atlantic Slave Trade. While Mama Odie spent her days in the bayou with her pet snake companion, Odette lived not too far away in the woods with a deer as a friend. 

Sadly, Odette’s husband had been brutally killed by KKK members…he was lynched in public in front of his wife. She got so upset that she wrote a letter to Etta, who then raced over to comfort her. Odette signed with her fingers and Etta managed to understand most of what she said. When the young Alastor found out, he was furious, as was Etta. But Odette had written down in a calm somber manner, “Violence, unless as a last resort, is never the answer. Fighting fire with fire only fuels the flames.” Alastor buried his head in the deer’s brown fur, the young stag resting his chin on his brown hair in comfort. 

“So nice of you, Cerf,” Odette signed to her pet. Alastor lifted his head to look at his mother. Through her tears, she moved up the corners of her mouth with her fingers. Alastor followed suit, trying to smile like his mother wanted. 

Odette had since then, made her craft a secret, only telling her methods to Etta and Alastor when they were alone. Etta knew that Armand would leave her broken and bruised if he found out. But she wanted desperately to expose Alastor to his rich heritage and magic. 

So on November second, when Armand wasn’t around, Etta took seven year old Alastor to see Odette in the woods before the Fet Ghede festival. 

“Where are we going?” Alastor asked.

“We’re going to see your grand-mere,” Etta replied. “Her name is Maman Odette.” She wore a white dress that stood out from the fall leaves swaying on the branches and littering the ground. Usually, Etta’s hair was pulled back tightened into a bun but now the black strings of her hair danced freely in the autumn breeze. Instead of her usual Christian cross necklace she wore with her husband, she now displayed an elaborate heart shaped symbol of Erzulie Freda, the goddess of love in Haitian mythology. Alastor wore a black shirt and matching black pants, along with a purple bow tie. A small purple and black top hat rested on his head. Etta carried a sack on her back full of rum, chili peppers, soul cakes and other offerings she had prepared the night before.

“It is rude to go to a ceremony and not be prepared,” she said. The walk was fairly long but thankfully Odete’s cottage was not too far away. 

“Maman Odette is a Voodoo Queen like her sister. This makes her very prominent in New Orleans. She can do Hoodoo, perform different spells and she’s talked to spirits many times.”

“Whoa,” Alastor breathed. “But wait…Papa says magic isn’t real.”

“Balderdash. Magic is real alright, just not the kind of wand waving spells you might be thinking of. It’s not dark magic per se, Voodoo magic is used as a way to heal and connect with the divine. You’ll see later on.”

Alastor saw a family of deer in this distance, peacefully grazing near a lake. A doe and a little fawn drank from the lake while a buck stood guard nearby. The fawn had white spots over its caramel colored coat. The fawn and Alastor briefly made eye contact, the fawn's face tilted in curiosity. Then just as fast, the fawn trotted away with the doe and the buck.

"Be glad Papa isn't around," Alastor mentioned to himself, knowing how often his father hunted.

Soon, they came to a clearing, where a small cottage rested. It was smaller than the Moreau cabin and closer to where they lived in the city. A dirt path led to the front door. A sign in the ground read "no trespassing." Save for some wild flowers around, the place didn't seem all that inviting. Still, Etta led her son up to the wooden porch.

Etta turned to him and spoke almost in a whisper. "Listen closely, son. Once we go through that door, you'll be exposed to traditions that have hardly reached main society. Sadly, your father grows less and less tolerant of it."

Alastor nodded. 

She continued, staring right into his eyes. "You're old enough to know this now. The U.S. is not acceptin' of those who look and act different than wealthy white folk. Many folk in this town are scared of us and don't understand our values. You've noticed it too, yes?"

Alastor thought back to the "white" and "colored" restroom signs and how one of his teachers told him that he was going in the wrong one.

"But my skin is light colored," he said, staring at his hands.

"Don't matter," the first grade teacher chided. "Not white enough. From what I recall, you're black."

Alastor didn't seem black or white. Why would anyone think he was a certain color anyway? He had dashed into the "colored" boy's bathroom, earning suspicious looks from his darker skinned classmates.

"Yes, I’ve been there too,” she said. “And it will only get worse. People only mingle in their lives and nothing is done to change things. Neg di san fe."

"People talk and don't act," Alastor repeated her saying.

"But now, you must promise me something," she continued.

"Anything, Mama," he said.

"You will learn all you can, show respect to Odette, and most importantly, this session stays between us."

"I promise," he affirmed.

Etta’s fist made contact with the door.

Knock.  
Knock, knock, knock, knock.  
Knock, knock.

It was a slow version of "Shave and a Haircut." The "pass code" to get in.

The door swung open.

Odette smiled when she saw her daughter in the doorway. They embraced in a tight hug. Odette had dark skin with wrinkles and a head of curly white hair. She wore a white dress and matching shoes. A cane was held in her left hand for walking and her dress was hand-made with colorful fabrics stitched together. Thin glasses were perched under her eyes and her ears were somewhat shriveled up, deafness in one ear. 

"And is this my grandson?” the hard of hearing lady signed.

Alastor nodded, “Yes, mam.”

She and Alastor embraced and shook hands.

"My grandson! What a pleasure it is to see you,” she signed before Etta translated for Alastor. Odette could talk but she would always do so loudly, so she got into the habit of signing. 

“Are you doing alright?” Etta asked in a clear voice for Odette. 

Odette shrugged her shoulders, brushing off the question.

"Well come on in," she beckoned, leading the way back inside. Alastor and his mother followed.

Inside the cottage, Alastor couldn't believe his eyes.

Voodoo alters and trinkets were everywhere in the living room. White unlit candles were placed in skulls on a large desk. There were pictures of Jesus, several of God's angels and a piece of artwork depicting African deities. One picture caught Alastor's eye: a black man with long braided hair wearing white skull makeup and wearing a black top hat and a dark purple suit. He was standing in a graveyard, with an elaborate cane leaned against a gravestone. A bottle of rum was in one of his hands.

There were various hand-crafted masks that hung on one of the walls. Herbs, straw voodoo dolls, and animal parts in small jars lined a shelf. Chicken feet, eyeballs, a rabbit foot, black dog tails and even a chicken fetus were suspended in murky liquid. Hanging from the ceiling were stitched up dolls and beautiful tubes of different-colored glass.

Another alter was dedicated to ancestors. One of the pictures showed Odette’s distant relative, Marie Laveau: an elegant looking woman wearing a red shall and a yellow cloth over her black hair.

"Satanism?" Alastor whispered, recalling a term his father used.

"No," his mother replied. "Hoodoo and Voodoo are different from Satanism and Paganism. Paganism sees the divinity in nature. Nothing to do with Satan, but Hoodoo involves God and the saints."

Odette took a seat in a comfy red chair in the living room. Etta and Alastor sat on a couch with flowered patterns on it. 

"Now then, for some history,” Odette signed while Etta repeated what she said out loud. “While Voodoo is a religion, Hoodoo is not, though they may appear to be the same thing. Hoodoo originated from Africa, while Voodoo arose from Haiti. In Hoodoo, practitioners practice a form of folk magic who often call on Roman Catholic saints or biblical characters for aid."

Odette held some purple crystal pieces and crushed herbs in her hand. Etta translated, "We often use different items to help us with healing, fortune telling and spell casting. For example…"

Odette put the amethyst crystal shards and crushed lavender into a bowl and mixed them up. She uttered an ancient incantation and the items glowed in a calming purple light. Alastor could feel tension ease away.

"This simple spell is used to help relax people before rituals. It gives them a sense of spiritual calmness." Odette signed and dusted off her hands and turned back to her two family members. "I gave thanks to Mary and Saint Joseph for that one."

Odette held out herbs in her hands and Etta explained how they could heal cuts, sooth burns, and ease pain. Others could be consumed to help fight off cramps and colds.

“I know what you’re thinking Alastor,” signed Odette as Etta repeated it back. “Magic shouldn’t just be used for money, love or revenge. Karma comes back to you if you try and cheat your way through life.” 

“How did she…”

“Odette can sense things,” Etta said. 

Etta continued as her mother signed. "In Voodoo, followers believe in a supreme creator known as Bondye, or Bon Dieu, French for "good God." As Bondye doesn't interfere with us mortals, the spirits known as Loa are called. There are many different types: the beneficial Rada, the malevolent Petro, the Congo Loa and the Gede who work with the dead. All of them are neutral spirits, they have quirks and flaws like we do. Rada energy is pure white, Petro is crimson red and Gede is a deep indigo. Often Voodoo symbols with associating colors will reflect the type of magic performed."

Alastor listened intently, amazed at this obscure hidden faith being revealed to him. He was half tempted to excitedly tell his father about all he had learned. But common sense ruled out.

Odette signed some more, slower so Etta could translate. "My father…er Odette’s father… would sometimes call upon the Ghede to appease the grief of loved ones…those who wanted to hear their voices one last time. But with increased demands, he grew weary of his work. More people wanted to see their loved ones…and the more he opened the rift between here and the spirit world, the more years he lost from his life. He decided to let the spirits be and focus on more simple healing rituals. Sadly, he died very young from the hands of a plantation slave owner."

Different Voodoo symbols floated in the air around her: white for Rada, red for Petro, and indigo for the death-related Loa family. "I’m…Odette is… affiliated with all Loa types, but…she uses magic for the good of others…”

Odette moved her mouth and signed rapidly. “Mama, I can’t understand you,” Etta said.

Odette gave her an apologetic look. She signed to Etta, “I’m sorry, I just wish you were able to someday take my place as the next Queen. With a little practice, you’d be a natural.”

“My husband won’t let me,” Etta replied, annoyance in her eyes. “Even though he’s often at work and hangs with his buddies. I’m not as good with magic as you. I have to revere the saints and ancestors in private.”

“Have you shown your rituals to Alastor?”

“A few times outside in the woods and bayou. He’s enjoyed it a lot. He’s been carrying a few alligator teeth for luck and protection. Roaming free in the wild is something he’s loved since the beginning.”

“You think he’s ready for this?”

“I know he is.”

Odette signed longer this time, apparently changing the topic. Alastor just heard his mother’s replies to his grandmother. 

“What do you think we should wear to the festival?” Odette asked. “I don’t think any well-off individuals would like seein’ us in these.” 

“Who cares what they’re wearing on Main Street or Savile Road?”

“But we should at least look presentable. My sexy form isn’t what it used to be.”

“It’s what you wear from ear to ear…” she smiled.

Odette signed rapidly, a small scowl on her wrinkled face. “Don’t you go making fun of my ears…”

“And not from head to toe that matters.”

“What are you two talking about?” asked a confused Alastor.

Odette just smiled and signed. “Let’s hurry on over to the festival.” 

The three of them laughed and talked as they made their way into the city. The sky overhead was tombstone gray, and the tree branches were bare and skeletal looking, matching the atmosphere. 

Odette signed again, her eyes full of memory. Etta looked down at Alastor and translated. “Odette’s telling a story to us, wanna hear it?”

Alastor eagerly nodded.

“Okay. My grandson Doctor Fa-ceel-i-air…”

Odette shook her head rapidly at Etta, crossing her hands as a stop signal.

“Um, sorry…” Etta said. “Repeat that?”

Odette signed slower again.

“Okay,” she said to Alastor. “She says that Mama Odie’s grandson Dr. Facilier…he’s in his early twenties…the man practices dark Voodoo and constantly seeks money and power. He used to be her student and use magic for good. Then he got envious of those who were wealthier than him. He said that he wanted to use magic to live the life he felt he deserved. So he started an emporium and left his grandmother, calling her an “old senile mambo,” that’s horrible. Dr. Facilier ended up making deals with people and owing souls to a group of malevolent Loa. Mama Odie tried to reason with him, but he had gone too far down the dark path. She says…”

Her eyebrows raised. 

“She fears that Alastor might go down that path if he’s not careful?!” She turned to Odette, ignoring Alastor’s puzzled expression. “Maman! What makes you say that?”

“It’s just this strange feeling I have. You know how I have instincts about people.”

“That may be true but he’s still my son. I know him better than anyone. I’ll make sure he doesn’t stray from his destiny.”

Odette nodded, taking another look at Alastor before walking on. Etta helped support her as they walked along the cobblestone streets. 

The Haitian Day of the Dead, Fet Gede was on November second, and it became one of Alastor’s favorite holidays, besides Christmas and his birthday. 

“Who’s Papa Gede?” Alastor asked.

“He’s a psychopomp who stands at the crossroads of life and death,” Etta replied. “He likes smoking cheap cigars and has a crude sense of humor.”

Odette revealed a string of signs to Etta, discussing a time when Odette talked with Baron Samedi when she was younger and the ways he flirted with her. There were several curse words as well. 

“Um…I’m not gonna translate that,” Etta said, a hint of laughter in the elderly lady’s eyes.

Already, people were singing, dancing and drumming in various areas. Many of them were dressed in purple, black and white outfits. Cigarette smoke hazed the area in a silvery gray, shoes clacking against the cobblestone ground. More than once, Alastor saw dressed up skeletons with top hats who waved to him and chatted amongst themselves. 

“Didn’t have time to paint my face white,” Etta muttered to herself. She passed by a woman on the grass wearing a ton of beaded necklaces and a hat with a red feather on it. The dancers in front of her were lying flat on the ground, mimicking being in coffins. The drums pounded like distant heartbeats throughout the city. 

The family stopped at the gravesite of Papa Gede, the “first man” who ever died. People honored the Loa Baron Samedi, leaving offerings of beeswax candles, food and bottles of rum stuffed with chili peppers. In peristyles, more singing, drumming, and dancing could be heard. Despite being a day to mourn and remember the dead, it was also a time to have fun. 

Alastor, Odette and Etta walked with other dressed up people toward a large cemetery in a pilgrimage. A person and a priest at the head of the line asked for permission from Maman Brigitte, Papa Gede, and Baron Samedi to enter. After they were granted access, the rest of the crowd dispersed to their respective gravesites of their loved ones. 

Alastor gasped as he caught last glimpses of Baron Samedi and Maman Brigitte. Baron Samedi was a dark colored man wearing a black and purple tailcoat and matching top hat. His face was painted like a skull and he had a cigar in his mouth. He looked similar to Dr. Facilier but with more humor and far less malevolence. The Loa stood on top of his cross-shaped gravestone, grinning in delight at the many offerings of food and flowers placed there for him. Papa Gede, the legendary first man who died, stood with his Loa relative in a similar outfit. In contrast, Maman Brigitte stood serious and elegant, wearing a green satin dress, her skin white and her long hair flowing and red. Brigitte gave off the appearance of a poised Scottish Wonder Woman. She was the only Loa to not have dark skin and hair. 

Just as quickly as they appeared, they vanished in the blink of an eye.

Alastor couldn’t believe it. “Mama! Grand-mere! Did you see that?”

“Yes,” they said, smiling, Odette yelling out the word. “Only a few people with close connections to the other side can see the deities in their glory,” Odette signed. 

The three Moreaus stopped at a tombstone at a nearby cemetery. White candles were lit by the nearby headstones and flowers were placed here and there. The cross shaped stone in front of them had Mathis’ name on it. “Mathis Duvalier, beloved husband, eighteen forty two – nineteen hundred and three.” 

Etta helped Odette get on her knees as she spoke a prayer in Creole. A cool breeze gave Alastor the chills and he thought he could hear faint whispers. Streaks of tears ran down his grandmother’s cheeks during the moments of silence. Etta placed a small can of rum, some fruits, cheese and orange flowers on a small altar set up near the tombstone. 

“I really do miss my dad,” Etta sighed, gazing off to the side as Alastor held her hand. Many other children would’ve been jumping or fooling around but Alastor held a sense of maturity rarely seen in a child that age. The altar nearby had his picture on it: A smiling man with chocolate brown skin, a head of white curly hair and a thin beard. 

Alastor had been too young to remember much about his grandfather, but he did recall a fond moment a few years back when Mathis had come over to the house and played the saxophone. He even let Alastor fiddle with the brass buttons and view the sheet music. Even Armand had been accepting and happy to hear Mathis play. 

“Mathis would’ve been happy to teach you some songs,” Etta said to a downcast Alastor. Although the boy enjoyed theater and music at school…it was the last place he wanted to be at. 

Mathis’ visit was all before the murder and the shift in Armand’s personality. 

Odette finally stood up after her grieving with some help from Etta. “Now that we’ve finished that, let’s go have some fun,” Etta said. Alastor’s eyes lit up as he followed his family out from the graveyard. He took once last glance at his grandfather’s grave before continuing on. They passed by a woman wearing a skeleton bodysuit and a black veil over her face, dressed like the goddess of death. 

“Look!” called Etta, pointing to a man straight ahead. A small crowd was gathered around him. The dark skinned man was dressed in a purple and black suit with dark sunglasses over his face. His face was covered in white powder and he was holding a bottle of pepper-infused alcohol. To the family’s bewilderment, the man pulled down his pants and poured the thick liquid over his genitals, penis throbbing. He made a wide-mouthed face of pain as he performed a swaying dance, to the amusement of the audience. Alastor made a face and looked away as Etta and Odette giggled. 

Odette signed again and Etta said to Alastor, “That’s a performer possessed by a Gede Loa. He’s performing the actions of the rowdy deities of the dead. It is common for these individuals to do erotic performances and have fun on the mortal plane.” The man belted out several notes and gulped down a bottle of rum, gasping with his tongue out as sweat coated his painted face. A few passerby with purple lipstick munched on plantains and cassava was sold at a nearby vendor. 

“That looks painful. Papa would be utterly appalled if he ever saw this,” Alastor thought.

Odette led them to a white peristyle flanked by black Christian crosses and skulls for decoration. A nearby sign had a French saying on it. “Remember, you are dust,” Etta translated. “Cheerful.” 

They changed into white robes and quietly took their places inside a darkened room lit by candles. Odette led the ceremony as the mambo, the intermediary between the Loa and those in attendance. An altar was decorated with skulls, candles, pepper and rum offerings as well as a small golden statue of a snake, representing Damballah, a creator deity.

“Where are the veve symbols?” Alastor wondered.

“That’s used in Haitian Voodoo,” Etta said. “Louisiana Voodoo is different.”

A swaying of dancing and a drumming began, first starting off slow, then growing in intensity. The people chanted and sang a song in a circle. In the center of the room. An array of offerings were placed by the base of the pole: bottles of rum and wine, fruits and food, flowers and trinkets. Odette wore a white head scarf and she gently shook a paquet congo, a special spiritual object consisting of herbs wrapped in fabric. The fabric was decorated with beads and ribbons. It was a power object, said to help activate the Loa.

The people in the room chanted in a circle, eventually reaching a crescendo. A glowing white cross appeared in the center of the room and a figure emerged from it. There stood the Loa of the Crossroads, Papa Legba. He appeared as an elderly man wearing overalls and a straw hat. A cigar was in one hand and a wooden cane was in the other. A large brown dog was standing by his side. His body was in a yellow aura and he looked partially transparent. His dog barked happily at the young boy and he smiled.

Odette placed a plate of candies and a mug of sweetened coffee by the Loa’s feet and bowed. “Papa Legba, we humbly welcome you to our festival and abode. Please accept these offerings.”

The old man walked over and happily took a sip of the coffee. He slowly picked up a piece of candy and popped it into his mouth. 

“Most appreciated,” Papa Legba replied in Creole, French and English. “For a few moments, I grant you permission to interact with those you miss most.”

A soft breeze blew in the room and wisps of teal blue slowly flew, almost hidden in the darkness. Odette could feel the warm presence of her husband nearby. If she listened closely, she could hear his comforting voice. 

It appeared that only the Moreaus could see the spirits but everyone could feel a supernatural presence in the space. 

Other Loa briefly appeared as well, Erzulie Freda in a pink dress holding a mirror, Agwe in ocean blue holding a fishing pole, Loco in forest green, Yemaya in deep blue, Maman Brigitte, and a smoking Baron Samedi in royal purple. Ogun, the warrior deity, appeared as a man in a military uniform with a flaming machete in his hands. 

“Sexuality and eroticism is what it is,” Samedi mentioned to no one in particular. “It’s one of the many joys in life…and death in some cases. You all need to stop pretending like it doesn’t exist. Especially you Western folk, hiding behind your ‘sex sells’ billboards…” Erzulie Freda wept quietly in the background. 

Papa Legba stood guard over the central post in the room; it held the portal in place. 

Suddenly, Papa Legba’s features morphed into that of a much darker being. The whole room dropped into dead silence. 

Met Kalfu was a dark faced tall muscular man with white and black bull horns extending from his head. The being had glowing red eyes, and red flames dancing in his hands. He wore a fancy red and black suit and tailcoat. He wore a matching top hat and long black dreadlocks framed his face. His dark top hat was decorated with seven small red eyes that appeared to move slightly. His pants and fancy dark shoes hid his bull hooves and black furry legs. Red Voodoo symbols hovered around him, no longer white. A cane was in his hands, the top of it was an all-seeing eye. He gulped down a jug of rum infused with gunpowder, the gray ashy substance settling between his sharp teeth.

Another crossroad portal opened up, this one black, revealing a demon with the head of a hart: Furfur. A third demon appeared with an ugly gray face and a pointed nose, the Greek demon of revenge and familial feuds. Kalfu had allowed the crossings of these dark deities. 

“It’s the Loa of destruction and misfortune, Met Kalfu,” Odette signed to Etta, who looked on in worry, not daring to make a move. But the Loa wasn’t focused on either of them. He and the demons slowly turned their transparent heads and stared at the young boy right in the eyes. Alastor stood frozen to the spot. Everyone except his family were blissfully unaware of the event.

“Mama…” Alastor began, a worried look on his face. 

The ugly gray demon held a flame shaped dagger in his claws, while Furfur’s bat wings were folded behind him. All three demons appeared to be attracted to the boy’s subconscious thoughts. Kalfu had decided to invite more demons for chaos. The red veve of Met Kalfu briefly appeared above the young Alastor’s head. Alastor felt a strange burning sensation, almost like something was “mounting” his body and soul. His body shook and he fell to his knees on the ground. Red voodoo symbols surrounded him and his eyes briefly glowed a demonic red as he shuddered. A thin trail of blood dripped down from his nose.

He wanted to end him. The very man who had pretended to be his loving father and was starting to ruin his very life and his mother’s. Hexes, traps, the ways were endless, any kind of bad karma would be a pleasing result. He didn’t care how…he just wanted him to disappear and never come back. 

And all the racists and perverts and sinners…they’d do well to be nailed to large crucifixes and burned alive. They’d have their pale backs whipped until they were sore and littered with scars like the ones that trailed his own body. He felt like dancing at the thought of chaotic fires burning the whole world. 

It would be a new form of entertainment, best of all!

An eerie green flame appeared in Alastor’s right hand. With his left hand, Alastor picked up a nearby knife on the ground, holding it up with a grin too wide for his face. A nearby black goat was humanely scarified and offered in another area. Alastor glanced at the animal’s shining red blood and felt a very strange hunger. Etta stared on in terror. 

“This is not good,” said Odette under her breath. Ritual possessions were never meant to be harmful or evil. The spirit would use the person as a temporary vessel to spread meaning to the group before leaving them unharmed. 

Met Kalfu spoke in a raspy voice that only Alastor could hear: “We will see each other again, mortal. A fiery spark of destruction awaits to be ignited in a future life. Be wise when our bargain comes.”

Alastor’s grandmother suddenly gasped…unbeknownst to the boy, his shadow behind him briefly took the shape of…

“A wendigo,” she breathed in concern and shock. 

Odette consecrated the golden snake statue and Papa Legba’s features slowly came back. His eyes glowed a fierce blue and a yell of protest followed. The other two demons stared at Alastor before they were sucked back through the portal. Alastor felt a release from the invisible grip around him and collapsed to the floor, the red glow fading from his eyes. 

“Ally!” cried Etta. 

Papa Legba held out his hands and all the Loa and ancestral spirits were sucked back into the X shaped portal. The other attendants looked like they had woken up from a meditation session. 

“Fare thee well,” the Loa called before stepping through. The portal closed and all the candles blew out by themselves. 

Odette ended the ceremony abruptly and all went silent. Without another word, she led Etta outside. A dazed Alastor was in his mother’s arms. 

“I knew there was something strange going on with him,” she signed.

“Yes, the event was strange but there is nothin’ wrong with my son!” Etta cried. “Couldn’t you sprinkle a circle of salt around him or somethin’?”

“The Loa are unpredictable. You saw it for yourself, the Loa usually don’t randomly choose people like that.”

“He’s a trickster,” Etta stated. “Perhaps he decided to play tricks on us in there.”

“Then care to explain why his veve only shined above your son’s head? And his shadow revealed a wendigo?” Odette yelled as she signed rapidly. 

There was a tense pause as Alastor’s eyes darted back and forth between them. 

“I don’t know wat you think you’re playin’ at, Maman!” seethed Etta. “Maybe you are getting’ senile or somethin’. But stop sayin’ that my son is gonna be evil like your sister’s grandson. Not gonna happen!”

“I only said he has the potential to be evil!”

“And how do you know that?!”

“I just do.”

“Not good enough!” Etta swore in Creole. 

Etta stared down at her son in concern. “Come on, Al, we gotta get home before your father returns.” Alastor glanced at his grandmother as they left. Odette gave her a look of sympathy and a bit of sorrow before disappearing into the shadows. 

Evening soon fell. Etta and Alastor made their way home as fast as they could. Soon enough, Alastor had recovered and was walking again. It had been a bizarre experience for him indeed…he had soon forgotten about it. Mother and son opened their front door…

…and there stood Armand in the doorway, arms folded.

“Where have you two been?”

Alastor and Etta exchanged fearful glances. “We were going for a stroll after we went shopping,” Etta explained. 

“With trinkets and coming home so late?” His piercing glare rooted Alastor to the spot. He growled in suspicion. “Going to those Satanic rituals were you? Exposing Alastor to obscene things at such an innocent age?”

“Maybe if you open your mind, you’d see the celebrations for what they are,” Etta argued. “You probably just refuse to accept it. Me not being allowed to leave?! Coming from someone who spends more time in church and bars than with his own family!” Etta and Alastor slowly moved into the house, Alastor hiding behind her. 

Armand paused, keeping his cold gaze. Another booze bottle stood by his chair. “Need I remind you what a good housewife does?” Armand asked Etta, changing the topic. Etta stood, stone-faced.

He slapped her face and Alastor winced. “I asked you a question.” 

Etta answered dully. “She stays at home and makes the house sparkling clean.”

“Good. And were you in the house?”

“No.”

“And you, boy,” he pointed a finger at Alastor. “Slacking off on your schoolwork and your Bible studies? Not what I expect from my son.” Just out of eyesight, Armand’s thick hands moved down Alastor’s hips in a disgusting manner. Etta noticed it and stomped her heel onto her husband’s foot, causing him to reel back. 

“I’m gonna beat you both for your insolence!” he seethed. He landed a kick to Etta’s stomach and she groaned, clutching her abdomen. With every punch and kick aimed at Alastor, his mother took the brunt of the force. 

She turned to him. “Go to your room Al.”

“Mama, I can’t leave you again…”

“That’s an order!” she said, forcing a pained smile. “I’ll handle this.”

Alastor let out a scream of frustration before running as fast as he could… slamming the door to his room. His smile on his face wobbled as he began to sob on his bed. Around ten minutes later, a loud ear-shattering pounding on the door signaled that Armand would be coming for him next. 

Alastor often wondered how he could be related to that man. Yet there was no doubt that Alastor shared his father’s brown slanted hair and his build. He even shared Armand’s near sighted vision; he read with a monocle under his right eye. If Alastor had white skin, he would’ve been the junior version of him. However, his eyes were a deeper brown like his mother’s and also had an unfathomable depth to them.

Another sore sleepless night. Another agonizing day at school with kids staring at his many wounds on his skin. He could only hope that no bones would get broken. 

In that moment, Alastor didn’t pity the dead…in fact, he envied them. He hoped that Mathis was making trustworthy friends on the other side in Guinee.


	5. You Rascal You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You sure is a rascal  
> I’ll be glad when you’re dead, you rascal you  
> When you dead in your grave  
> No more women will you crave  
> I’ll be glad when you dead, you rascal you”  
> –Cab Calloway/Louis Armstrong

Nineteen hundred and five

Alastor was nine years old, currently stuck at their family’s cabin deep in the woods midway through December. Snow blanketed the grass, rocks and trees in every direction and a few more flurries were still falling.

Etta was working some extra shifts, even around the holidays, leaving Alastor with his father. “I’ll be back in time for Christmas,” his mother had said. “The secretary job has me working more all the time.” 

“But you’re treated badly when you’re working,” Alastor mentioned. Antoinette had told him how others looked down on her or didn’t take her seriously. 

“I have no choice,” she explained. “I have to bring in a little bit of income and help keep the house presentable. Every bit counts for the American Dream, right?”

“Come along, Alastor,” he called. “I’m going to teach you the basics of hunting and taxidermy.”

“I don’t know, Papa…”

“Not a request, son. Get ready and follow me.”

Alastor grabbed his coat, boots and gloves and followed the tall man outside. Their boots crunched through the snow. 

The two of them gathered traps, bait, and a rifle from the shed and then they began their backpack trek through the snow. Alastor's two weeks of learning had begun.

Alastor calmed himself as his father taught him many things: how to navigate the woods silently, how to set up various traps, which body parts of a deer to aim for and how to properly prepare the meat. He also did some target practice with the rifle and learned self-defense. Although it wasn't the most ideal experience, Alastor was a fast learner.

"Always go for your gun or knife at signs of trouble," Armand had said. "No time to overthink things or show doubt. You gotta trust your instincts. Use your gun only for hunting and self-defense. And keep practicing on running, you never know when you might become the prey."

Armand taught Alastor how to hold his rifle and perch on tree branches for better views. 

“Always point your muzzle in a safe direction at all times. Always treat your gun as if it were loaded. Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot. And always be sure of your target and beyond.” 

“And for obvious reasons, your gun should be unloaded when not in use,” Armand added. 

Alastor had missed shooting the targets several times, until Armand showed him some tricks to looking through the circular glass scope. His aims got more accurate as the days passed, the position of his fingers improving. He was soon getting less and less tired and found he could run faster, even over rocks, logs and other natural obstacles.

And, of course, Alastor learned basic survival skills: pitching tents, rubbing wood for fire, finding shelter when needed. It was a peculiar camping trip with his dad, but he made the most of it. Here in nature, there was little to no pressure to be a "proper man." No worrying about keeping up appearances, showing dominance, studying for school, or worse, making the effort to flirt with girls. Alastor saw girls as good friends but he certainly wasn't interested sexually nor romantically. He wasn't even sure if he could ever fall in love.

They walked along through the woods for several hours. They set up some bear traps and trip lines, Armand instructing his son along the way. They managed to catch a lone rabbit in one of the traps. Alastor had chased after another rabbit and lured it into a second trap.

"Impressive," Armand praised as Alastor held up a dead rabbit proudly in his hands.

After a while, Armand had spotted a young brown stag.

"Stay still and be quiet," he whispered.

He got his hunting rifle set up and made sure the bullets were properly in place. He and Alastor took cover behind a large snow-covered bush. Armand silently watched the deer's every move, the way it walked and grazed at a few grass spots.

A click.

The deer's ears briefly flicked back as it scanned its surroundings. Nothing was heard except the chilly winter air…

Bang!

The gunshot rang out and the animal fell back on the ground with a thud. Armand made his way from behind the bush and toward the fallen creature. The bullet had made its mark through its furry neck. A hole surrounded by blood, nearby snow stained red.

"Don't waste your bullets," he told Alastor. "Be sure your aim is true as possible. Clean, merciful kills are essential."

Armand hoisted the animal over his shoulder with strong arms.

They made their way over toward the shed, where they proceeded to skin the animal and chop up the meat for preparation. They had propped up the carcass on a long table. The longer that Alastor watched, the less disgusted he became. In fact, dare he think it, he found the whole process intriguing. The way his father's hands moved expertly when he used various knives and tools. Alastor stood next to him. 

Armand held his hunting knife, which glinted in the faint light. “First, you cut from the chest, below the brisket and stop just above the hip bone.” He demonstrated the cut in a slow smooth motion for Alastor to see. Alastor used a smaller knife to follow the bloody slit trail. “We’ll need to remove the organs to prevent any contamination,” Armand said. Both men wore gloves and carefully scooped out the viscera’s underneath. They slopped as they fell into the bucket below. Alastor made a sick face.

“Don’t worry, the good part is coming up,” Armand said. Alastor turned back to the front. 

“Now open up the skin on the front leg joints like this,” Armand said. He used a hand to reveal a joint in the middle of the deer leg. “Cut around the circumference of the leg and use medium pressure. Cutting too hard would beak the tendons and muscle.” 

Alastor used shallow cuts as he tried it for the first time. Armand guided his hand as he worked. Armand grabbed the skin on the outside of the cuts and pulled backward. He then instructed Alastor to do it with the other back legs. “Use the knife tip to locate the center of the joint in the other legs.” 

After Alastor finished, Armand demonstrated how to separate the furry pelt from the skin. “Start at the base of the legs and peel the skin backwards and outward from the chest cavity. It is tedious, but be patient. Be sure to use one hand to hold back the skin to prevent any hair from getting into the meat.” Alastor practiced around the legs while Armand peeled the skin and pelt off from the deer’s center. Armand then showed him how to make an incision to the deer’s head. “Keep the neck in good condition,” he said.

After another hour or so, they cut off the tender good meat pieces to use for their meals, wrapping them in plastic then placing them in a bucket of ice. They both washed up when they were done.

By the end of the week, Alastor could do most of the skinning on his own. He had copied his father’s movements and struggled several times but now he was doing it like it was second nature to him. 

“He sure is a fast learner,” Armand thought with a sense of unease. The way that Alastor’s brown eyes shown in delight whenever he made one good slice after another. “He could hunt and sell animal heads better than me in a few years.” 

Sure enough, Etta did make it back in time for the holidays. She gasped in wonder at the lit white candles in the Christmas tree decorated with colorful lights. A golden lotus French symbol shone on the top of the tree.

The family ate a marvelous dinner together, which included roast turkey, duck soup, venison with wine sauce and various vegetables with sweet potatoes. After lighting candles, they sang Christmas songs and hymns to Jesus and the Lord. Dinner was over and the three Moreaus relaxed in the family room. The snow falling outside was a beautiful sight to look at through the windows. Armand and Etta even shared a romantic dance together as Alastor rolled his eyes.

Little excited Alastor could hardly sleep that night.

On Christmas morning, they opened their presents under the tree. Alastor had gotten a new red bike, coloring sheets, new clothes and new boots. Armand had given Etta new dresses, an apron, shiny pots and pans and even a box of chocolates. Armand got new tools and clothes. A few strawberries coated in chocolate were also in the box.

Etta popped several into her mouth with delight.

"So creamy and oh so good! You are a lovely soul. Ah'm lovin' these strawberries."

Armand ate a few as well.

"Would ya like some, dear?" Etta asked, offering a strawberry to Alastor.

Alastor popped it in his mouth and instantly made a face at the sickening sweet taste. He raced toward the kitchen sink to spit it out. Armand and Etta looked at each other.

Armand shrugged. "Well, I guess sweets aren't for everybody." The couple giggled.

Alastor wiped his mouth and walked back. "Nope, never again."

The arguments and troubles reached a bubbling point back at the house. Armand had gotten mad at Alastor when he tried to tell Etta about the woman Armand was seeing out in public. 

The child screams and wails coming from the upstairs bedroom made the neighbors down below uneasy. Then again, it wasn't their problem, so they continued on with their day.

"Take this punishment like a man and stop that fussing."

"Stop…stop it, Papa!"

A crack echoed through the air followed by a high pained yell.

"You're an impure sissy homo unworthy for His eyes."

A brief silence.

"Say it."

"No."

Another crack. Another lash. Then another.

"Say it!"

Alastor yelled and repeated, "I'm an impure sissy homo…unworthy of God!"

"I can't hear you!"

The loud cries could be heard around the block. Passerby avoided the Moreau house like the plague.

Raging red lashes ran across Alastor's light brown back like scratches left by a demon. During their troubled times and forced devotion to the Heavenly Father, all Etta and her son could do was cry and hug each other like their lives depended on it.

"They'll heal," she said, one of her eyes was swollen from her husband's fist. "Trust me, Al…we'll get through this."

"How so?"

She lifted up the corners of her mouth and then his. "Smile all the way through."

So that's what he did.

Nineteen hundred and six  
During one October night that would soon scar him for life, ten year old Alastor was woken up by thuds and muffling sounds. His mother was cleaning up the kitchen after a long late day of work. The sounds wouldn't stop, so the young boy got up to investigate. He walked quietly down the upstairs hallway and saw a few empty beer bottles leaned up against the wall. The door to his father's room was open a crack and a thin sliver of yellow light shone through.

Very strange. His father was usually never up this late. He opened the door a bit and a most horrifying sight met his eyes.

A young blonde-haired flapper dame lay naked on the bed, legs spread out, hands gripping the white sheets. She arched her back and moaned in ecstasy. Lying on top of her, was none other than his father, his penis going in and out of her with deep thrusts. Alastor could not hold back a shaken breath.

The moaning stopped. Armand's cock slipped out in a wet mess. With a crack of his neck, he turned toward his son.

It was like staring into the eyes of the Devil himself, pure dark eyes, full of anger and malice. The woman, stared confused.

He gave her a look that said, "I'll be right back."

He bellowed, "Alastor!"

The boy ran for his life. He heard the stomping of feet rapidly approach. He dashed into his room, trying to close the door, but thick white hands pried it open. Armand towered over him like a wild hairless ape with a black mustache and a frazzled mop of black hair. He locked the door and grabbed Alastor by his shirt collar.

"Clothes off," he demanded.

His teeth chattered.

"Are you deaf, boy? Now!"

With shaking hands, Alastor removed his shirt and pants and finally his undergarments.

Armand nodded and retrieved something long and black from a hook up above.

The boy's eyes grew wide. "Papa, no, no, please!"

"I've always known there was somethin' wrong with you," he stated. "Daily blasphemy against God, clumsy at sports, doesn't bat an eye at any girls."

The whip made impact against his light brown back, legs, and chest. He cried out at every painful sting.

"I always have to teach you a lesson every other day it seems. But to rudely intrude on me and my girl's privacy…"

Magic didn't spark to life from his hands, no matter how hard he tried.

Tears flowed down his face as rough hands grasped mercilessly at his frail body.

"I deserve this punishment! Say it," Armand demanded.

"I…d…deserve this punishment…" the boy stuttered.

"Again!"

Alastor repeated it in a frantic yell, anxious to get the torture over with. Where was his mother?!

Etta was humming as she washed a pot, then suddenly heard some muffled yells from upstairs. She was wearing a dress of red and purple.

"Now what in da names of Heaven and Hell is goin' on up there?" she asked.

She turned off the water and walked up the stairs. The commotion and fighting grew louder. It appeared to be coming from Alastor's room. She peered into the master bedroom and saw a random blonde woman, waiting in bed. The two women gasped, then stared each other down.

"Ah strongly suggest that ya get ready ta leave this house, if ya know what's best for ya," Etta chided.

"Why do you talk like that? I can barely understand you," she replied, fluffing her blonde hair.

"Here, Ah'll make it simple for ya," she said pointing down the hall. "Leave."

"No, he's waiting for me."

A gut-wrenching felling arrived in her gut…a feeling that only grew as she heard the screams. She rushed toward the white door with a long black handle. She grabbed it and pushed own, but it wouldn't budge.

"Armand! Alastor! What's going on?"

"Mama, help!" cried her son's voice.

"Shut your trap!" his father boomed as another crack sounded.

Etta banged hard on the door. "Ya betta let him go right now! And who's that lady in your room?"

"None of your business, woman!"

"You let him out or Ah'll divorce ya!"

Armand let out a sickening laugh. "We both know I'm the head of household. You're my wife and you're staying with me! Now close your head!"

Etta swore in French, kicked and pounded at the door to no avail. "Alastor!"

"…fucking sissy of a boy!" Armand yelled. "Wait, you're not into girls. That only means one thing. You must be horny for other guys!"

"That's not true, father!" he protested. "I'm not into anybody! I just dance with girls for fun. They're my friends!"

"Lazy dewdropper boy with nothin' better to do than to sit at home and doze off to musicals. Ya tryin' to be a disappointment to me and the Lord?"

"No father, I swear! I…I've tried hard at everything you taught me and I've gotten much better! Hunting, running, shooting, everything."

In fact, Armand was stunned and a little frightened at how fast he had improved. He wouldn't be surprised if his son ruined his reputation one day. If he indeed used dark magic of the Devil, it was only a matter of time if he used it to hurt both of them or even his mother in a reckless craze.

Thus, his son had to learn his place.

"Not good enough!" The man's white face turned beat red, his breath smelling of beer and cigar smoke. "I can see why those at school take you to be a weird sap. You're lost in your own puny head, not giving a flyin' horsefeather about what goes on in the real world. You bring mud into the house every day after frolicking around outside like it's no big deal. What a disappointment."

"Papa, I'm not a disappointment!"

"If you wanna live under this roof, I expect you to follow my rules. Tell me, you're a bi-racial freak who hits on any guy he sees, is that right?"

The young boy shook his head. "No."

"Answer the question truthfully, you liar."

"Papa, stop!"

"Answer the god damn question, boy!"

The whip struck again. "Yes!" he lied in desperation.

"Thatta boy," he nodded in approval.

A strong punch to Alastor's jawbone left him wailing. He had a bad feeling that he'd wake up in the morning with several bruises.

"You gonna…leave me on the streets?" Alastor groaned. "Better there than with you…"

Armand slapped him in the face. "You might end up there if you don't find a decent job. Believe me, if I wanted to kick you out and leave you to die…"

He spoke in a low voice.

"I would've done so already."

Kicks, scratches, whips…the assaults went on, Alastor gritting his teeth against the sharp sensations. He tried to concentrate on his mother's soothing voice from outside. He could hear her sobbing from behind the door.

"You're a worthless sissy slut!" Armand bellowed. "Say it."

"I…I'm a worthless sissy slut…" he looked down.

"Louder! Look at me when I'm talking to you."

Alastor stared, tears in his eyes and repeated the phrase again and again. He was utterly humiliated…a sickening feeling inside him every time he spoke those self-degrading sentences. The spanking was especially painful…his brown bottom turning red as a beet. Alastor closed his eyes and waited until it was over. He looked at his father and obeyed his commands, anxious for the torment to end.

At long last, the beatings stopped. His body ached all over, brown skin beat red.

Alastor thought it had ended…

Then his father had a crazed look in his eyes. He slowly walked over to him, a sway in his hunky hips.

"You like men, do ya?" he asked.

Alastor lied and nodded, feeling helpless. Armand began stroking his own dick.

"Well, then, for taking your punishment, I'll give you a little reward…"

He was pinned down onto his bed, stomach first by his father's large hands. Struggling and screaming was useless.

A horrible presence of something long, thick and foreign, pulling in and out of him from behind…

Rough calloused hands exploring light brown skin, tugging his neither regions, every touch a sickening violation.

The horrid taste of flesh and semen in his mouth, the choking and gagging worsening the experience.

An odorous smell in the air…a slimy substance, sticking to him and inside him, like a liquid pathogen that could never be cleansed away. The room was abuzz with child screams of protest, clashing with low grunts and manly moans of pleasure.

He felt like a deer that had been run over and spit on.

His father's face inches from his own…

Speaking in a bone-chilling whisper…

"…and don't you ever spy on me with my other sheba again, ya hear me?! You were unlucky enough to be born as it is. Crying pussy…"

He stomped out of the room, and slammed the door to the master bedroom. Alastor brawled into his pillow for what seemed like hours. He wanted to die then and there. His skin sweaty, covered with bruises and harsh blood-filled gashes.

"Je suis desole…mon fils…"

Soft dark brown arms enveloped his weak form, as his mother sat down on the bed beside him. He knew that comforting smell of perfume and herbs anywhere. She held him in her arms and closed her eyes, tears falling down.

Alastor groaned and lifted his head slightly.

"Mama?"

The smile on her face paled in comparison to the sadness in her brown eyes. "I'm here, Al."

Alastor promptly passed out. Etta quietly carried him into the bathroom and cleaned him up. The master bedroom was quiet. Armand and the other lady were sleeping.

Etta held back the gut wrenching feeling and carried her son back to his room. He was wrapped protectively in a white towel.

She sang a Creole lullaby as she tucked him into bed and placed a new pile of clothes next to him. Choking back more sobs, she kissed him on the forehead. Now, she was feeling guilt at another tragic situation beyond her control. Alastor had felt bad that he couldn't stop Louis from burning down Antoinette's cottage.

Now the nagging, soul-crushing sensation had looped back around. Not being able to save her son…no amount of guilt could describe it.

"I'm sorry…"

The next morning, Armand and the lady left for the day without saying a word.

Etta spoke in English, her smile radiant and kind… "Your favorite meal, sweetheart. Thought it'd cheer you up."

Alastor sat down and his eyes lit up. A hot colorful dish of jambalaya sat waiting for him. A mesh-up of pink shrimp, onions, green pepper slices, sausage bits and a few other vegetables. The first taste sent a fiery kick to his tongue.

"Hot sauce, of course…" she said.

Alastor chewed happily, imagining that he was eating his father's fried fingers.

She tenderly touched her son's cheeks, wiping away the remaining tears.

"You're not worthless. You're not a sissy. Don't believe anything your father says to you. You are my son…and no matter what you do, I'll always love you."

"Y-you really believe that?"

"I swear by the Lord above, I do." She planted a kiss on top of his head of brown hair.

She tenderly lifted up the corners of his mouth, a playful look on her face. Alastor's cheeks blushed in happiness.

"Hey, don't forget to smile, my dear. You're never fully dressed without one!"

"Will you be a wife forever?" Alastor asked.

Etta shook her head. "Fanm pou you tan, manman pou tout tan." (Wife for a time, mother for all time). "You will always be my first priority."

The two of them shared an embrace as the weak sun rays managed to shine through the nearby window. Alastor feel asleep that night with dark thoughts best not spoken.


	6. God Moves On The Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ah, Lord, ah, Lord  
> Year of nineteen hundred and twelve, April the fourteenth day  
> Great Titanic struck an iceberg, people had to run and pray  
> God moves, moves, God moves, ah, and the people had to run and pray”  
> -Billie Johnson

Nineteen hundred and twelve

Alastor had read about the sinking of the Titanic in the newspaper, thankful that he wasn’t involved in the tragic accident. 

“How horrible,” Etta said, hand over her mouth as she glimpsed at the black and white images of the wrecked ship hitting the iceberg. “So many lives lost…unimaginable.”

Armand was sad too, but not as visibly shaken as Etta. “It is of no concern to us.” He stood up to go to church for his daily prayers and duties.

Etta was left to clean the house again; she got into a dull rhythm of wiping the counters, scrubbing dishes and preparing the dinner. A thirteen year old Alastor sat with a hand on his chin, staring passively at another boring assignment on the table. 

Every day was the same: more beatings from his father and occasionally from the other kids, although he could now defend himself against them. Even in his later teen years, Alastor was scared of angering Armand. Worst of all, he felt aching guilt whenever his mother took the blows for him. Her dress would be torn and her face would be sore, but she still showed her smile.

“Mama, you don’t need to do that,” Alastor said with concern. 

“Hooey, Al. I always protect my son no matter what. Pwoblèm p ap fini. The problems will not end.”

A silver veve of Erzulie Danto, the fierce motherly protector Loa, hung hidden on a necklace under the upper folds of her dress. 

Alastor found solace in voodoo rituals, joke books and the times when he could practice playing the trumpet and saxophone at school. He was getting better and better as time went on. Before long, he was one of the best players in his school. He even got a led part in the school band, being surrounded by other dark colored boys on stage. His mother cheered for him in the front row of the auditorium. As Alastor got into music, his old friend Mimzy progressed in her singing. Living in the Garden District, she had learned how to be a proper lady thanks to her governess but that didn’t stop her from doing things on her own. Mimzy didn’t mind being risqué at times. 

Nineteen hundred and fourteen

Alastor practiced his trumpet, sitting on a tall tree stump across the street. He learned the hard way not to play in the house with his father around. His father had almost snatched the trumpet from him before he raced out the door. 

Speaking of Mimzy…

The blonde dapper dame turned a corner, slowed her walk and smiled at him. 

On the outside, the two looked as different as night and day. Mimzy was heavyset with curly blonde hair that she would sometimes put in curlers. She was pale-skinned with blue-green eyes that sparkled in the light. In contrast, the darker skinned Alastor was slender, with glasses on his face, dark brown eyes and brown hair in a long ponytail behind his head. He wore dark green pants and a tan shirt with a few buttons on it. A few used cigarettes were scattered here and there. When a few passerby spat the n- word at him, he played louder, getting lost in the music. Mimzy strode on the sidewalk in a white flapper dress that revealed the lower part of her legs. A golden scarf with feathers was draped around her neck. Hanging from her ears were matching pearl earrings. The music stopped her in her tracks. All the taunts of “Fatty dame” and “Slut” vanished from her head as the jazz notes enveloped her thoughts. 

“Good day, Alastor!” she greeted after he played his piece. Alastor’s eyes briefly grew in surprise. “Your solo performance was the bee’s knees!”

Alastor smiled, a hint of a blush creeping to his cheeks. “Thank you, sweetheart!” Putting his trumpet back in the black case, he made his way over to her. Both of them shared a friendly hug. 

“How have you been?” Mimzy asked as she broke the hug. “I know we don’t get to see each other very often.”

“Our families are very different,” Alastor agreed. “But at least we can enjoy ourselves every Mardi Gras.” The two would dance together and watch the parades. They would go off on their own more, now that they were older. Even with feathery masks over their eyes, it wouldn’t take long for the friends to notice each other. No other man seemed to have the same gleam curious gleam in his eyes like Alastor. And Mimzy was very bold and unique among the more passive wallflowers around. 

Mimzy fluffed up her hair and looked playfully at her friend. 

“I was maybe thinking of going topless for the next Mardi Gras,” she pondered, pausing for effect. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

Alastor’s face flushed deep red. “No, no certainly not,” he replied, briefly waving his hands. “You could get arrested for such an act.”

“But it’s part of the tradition,” she smirked. She loved getting a rise out of Alastor. “Besides, I’m old enough and a few of my friends are doing it.”

“You mean the zozzled ones?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Drinking’s all fun if it’s not overdone,” she thrilled in a sing-song voice. “My mother taught me that saying.”

Alastor snickered before briefly sighing. “You won’t believe all the Creole sayings I learned from my mother. Have them all memorized, practically.” 

Alastor paused, remembering the previous topic. “As to how I am? Nothing special. I’ve mostly been practicing my music, avoiding my father as much as I can.”

“Di mi,” Mimzy breathed softly in concern as she glimpsed at a fading bruise over one of Alastor’s eyes. 

“What about you, dear?” Alastor asked.

“When I’m not forced to learn etiquette, host parties or sew,” Mimzy replied, “I go shopping for new outfits and I sing. Or sometimes, I stuff myself with the sweetest doughnuts. Chocolate is perhaps my favorite!”

Alastor briefly glanced off to the side. “This may sound strange, but I’ve never really been into sweets. I’m more into meat and coffee.”

“That’s quite alright,” Mimzy said. “Who would we be without our quirks?”

Alastor studied her moon-shaped face and a hue of sparkling eyeshadow on her lids. Alastor played slower notes on the trumpet and Mimzy harmonized with him. For several minutes, it was just the two of them, immersed in the lifelong hobbies they loved. 

Alastor’s fingers expertly pressed the brass knobs as he played an upbeat song and then a mellow tune. Closing her eyes, Mimzy swayed and sang along, feeling like the star of her own show. Alastor too, was mesmerized by her dancing and her voice; both had improved over the years. 

“Majorie!” her governess called from a mansion porch one block away. Mimzy glanced over just as the music reached the end. She was a pale lady wearing red velvet dress with her black hair in a tight bun.

Mimzy flinched. “Sorry, Alastor, I have to go. Embroidery lessons and party hosting again.”

Alastor rolled his eyes, hiding his disappointment. “Good luck, my friend.”

Before she left, Alastor mustered up his courage and planted a gentle kiss on her white hand. Mimzy smiled back, her cheeks red. She blew him a few kisses as she sped up her pace down the sidewalk. Letting out a forlorn sigh, Alastor carried his trumpet case and headed on back home.

Nineteen hundred and fifteen

It was a wild windy event that Alastor wouldn’t forget in a while: The Great Hurricane of nineteen fifteen. 

It started in September when he was sixteen and persisted until October. It was an intense category four hurricane and later moved westward. The storm knocked over buildings, damaged property and killed hundreds of people. 

At first, there was a weak tropical storm that moved across the Windward Islands. The storm then reached a peak on September twenty ninth, when it swept over the Louisiana coast. 

Palm trees blew frantically in the wind against their will. The sky was silvery gray with dark areas here and there. Alastor’s school went on lockdown as the sirens blared overhead, deafened by the roar of wind. Alastor and his classmates huddled in a windowless room against the wall, some students were covering their faces and kneeling down. They had been over drills like these many times, especially those for hurricanes and bombings. Plates of food and bottles of water were passed out to the students. 

The only reason they could stay as close as they did in Louisiana was the wall of sand built managed to eventually help diminish the waves. Also there was no time to properly evacuate. 

After what seemed like forever, the “all clear” signal was given. The students were sent home, some picked up by their parents, who arrived in a frantic frenzy. Despite the scary event, Alastor took his time as he headed for home. 

Some parts of the French Quarter were unrecognizable. Shops and windows were boarded up and debris littered the cobblestone street. Alastor took care to avoid a fallen telephone pole and wires. Broken glass, trash, trees all littered the area as far as the eye could see. 

The red light district was hit the hardest; some of the buildings had collapsed in large heaps of rubble. Medical personal were already retrieving dead bodies from the wreckage. Meanwhile those in the Garden District came out from underground basements, looking worried. Many restaurants were boarded up or closed, including Antoinette’s, which was his favorite. 

Just then, Alastor spotted a struggling figure in a nearby rushing creek that was higher than usual. Water rushed on by; a raging river. Without thinking, he raced over toward a protruding branch. It appeared to be a shivering animal trying to grab onto the branches. 

Very carefully, he inched forward, his feet almost at the edge of the bank. Just one more step and it would all be over for him. Tentatively, he reached out his hand and grabbed hold of a paw. The animal inched closer to him, his fingers feeling slick fur.

“Meow,” the cat croaked, shivering. Standing on his tiptoes, Alastor reached forward with both hands to grab the animal, stumbling backwards, almost losing his balance. With the creature in his arms, he raced toward a building. He wrapped the animal in a towel, drying off its ginger fur. 

“Is this anyone’s cat?” he asked out loud. 

The people around him shook their heads. One man nudged at another man, who stepped forward.

“I thought Vanexa wouldn’t make it,” he said.

“I think I saved her life,” Alastor said.

“You?” he raised his eyes in disbelief. “How do I know you’re not trying to steal her?”

“What?” he asked in disbelief before the feline was snatched from him. The bearded man muttered with a glare and promptly left.

Alastor stomped his foot in frustration. “So much for a thank you.”

A white man with blonde bangs over his eyes shook his head. He wore a shirt and trousers stained with mud. He was trying to clear away some of the debris. “You did a noble thing, Alastor,” he said. “Don’t listen to those who try and get you down.”

“Do…I know you?”

“Your father’s friend, I am.”

Alastor took a step back, narrowed his eyes.

The man held up his hands. “No, I’m not gonna tell on you or anything. Though you have right to be suspicious nowadays. There’s definitely something going on with him. Won’t listen to anything I say; too focused on following “God’s pre-destined path for him. What a bunch of hooey. Be glad he ain’t part of the KKK, son. I’d end my friendship with him in a heartbeat if that were the case.”

Alastoe stared downcast. He was too self-conscious to reveal what Armand had done to him over the years. 

“I don’t know much about your mother,” the man went on, “but she seems like a wonderful lady. Raised you well, that I know.”

A small smile appeared on Alastor’s face. “Thank you, sir.”

“No problem. I’d best be getting back to work, and you’d best be getting’ on home.”

Alastor nodded in thanks and continued on his way. 

Alastor got home, relieved that his parents were alright, albeit very shaken. 

“So glad you’re alright, my boy,” said Etta, embracing him. Both had tears in their eyes. Aside from some holes in the walls and roof, their house had been spared. Still, Alastor had to help Armand fix it in the meanwhile. He didn’t dare talk or look at his father while he worked. Etta and Alastor later recited a prayer to Agwe, the Loa of ships and the sea for further protection. 

It took Louisiana weeks to recover, but recover they did. Afterwards, Alastor was certain that he and his family could handle anything that came to him.

That is, until the war began.

Stay Tuned


	7. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So give them blood, blood, gallons of the stuff  
> Give them all that they can drink and it will never be enough  
> So give them blood, blood, blood  
> Grab a glass because there's going to be a flood”  
> -My Chemical Romance

Alastor and his father are drafted for the war and go into separate groups. They tearfully hug Etta, wondering if they will ever see her again. Alastor works with other colored men. 

During the war, Alastor works with communication on the front lines. He watches his comrades die in front of him and nearly dies himself. Etta works as a Red Cross nurse. During his time, Alastor becomes fascinated by radios and how they work.

After the war, Alastor makes crystal set ones and radios soon become his source of entertainment and solace. He mimics the Trans-Atlantic accent and rehearses for fun. For a time, Alastor enjoys himself with his mother with no fear of keeping quiet or enduring boot beatings. 

Tragically in 1918, the Spanish Flu occurs. Alastor tries to find someone to give his mother medicine and to help her but no one does. He sees more people die around him and becomes very restless. On one fateful day, Alastor’s mother succumbs to the disease and dies. His father happens to come home from the war on the very same day. Armand sees Etta sick and blames her at first, calling her a “lazy whore”. Then they both watch as she takes her last breath.

Furious at his son’s “laziness”, Armand beats Alastor and chokes him almost to death. At this point, Alastor isn’t afraid of his father anymore. Defending himself in a newfound rage, Alastor snaps, knocks his father down, bites his neck and stabs him to death. The blood-stained Alastor lets out a crazed laugh at the feeling of finally being in control. He burns his father’s body, smokes, and is forced to bury his mother in the backyard. He prays to Baron Samedi as well.

Stay Tuned


	8. Friends On The Other Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't you disrespect me little man!  
> Don't you derogate or deride!  
> You're in my world now  
> Not your world  
> And I got friends on the other side!”  
> -Dr. Facilier, Disney

Seeking riches, recognition and revenge, Alastor summons Met Kalfu, who arrives with Greek Alastor and Furfur, making deals with them. Greek Alastor accepts his sacrifice, being the spirit of revenge and familial feuds. The three deities would later grant Alastor his powers in Hell (shadow magic, tentacles, teleportation, radio travel, possession, broadcasting, voodoo magic, etc.) They tell him to sacrifice human souls and to keep revering them, so he does. As a result, Alastor loses touch with his ancestors and the other Loa. They help Alastor achieve his fame but in order to get his powers, he has to die and go to Hell. (In a retaliation of fate, Alastor dies by dog attacks and a shot to the head, symbolizing the hunted becoming the hunted and Legba’s association with dogs). Alastor also feeds human bodies to the gators.

Stay Tuned


	9. Dr. Jazz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hello central, give me Doctor Jazz  
> He’s got what I need, I’ll say he has  
> When the world goes wrong and I’ve got the blues  
> He’s the guy who makes me put on both my dancin’ shoes”  
> -Joe King Oliver

Alastor becomes a band leader, and well known jazz player, collaborating with legends like Louis Armstrong. His prowess in music gets the attention of newly formed radio stations. He applies for radio jobs but gets rejected due to his race (luck wasn’t always on his side.) After playing the same songs as a DJ for one station, Alastor decides to make his own radio station in the bayou.

Stay Tuned


	10. Sitting On Top Of The World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sitting on top of the world,  
> I'm rolling along,  
> I'm rolling along.  
> I'm quitting the blues of the world,  
> Just singing a song,  
> Just singing a song”  
> -Al Jolson

In the Roaring Twenties, Alastor soon becomes the most famous radio host in Louisiana. He enjoys his job, doing it at 6AM every morning. On air, he tells dad jokes, daily news, recipes and later on…various murders, including his own and those by the Axe Man. Alastor only kills male criminals at night, becoming a mysterious vigilante figure as well. He becomes known as the Louisiana Lunatic, Deer Devil, Axe Man 2 and the Vigilante, though no one knows it’s him.

Alastor lavishes in wealth and fame, drinking liquor and coffee, pulling pranks, buying himself new suits, top hats, and a microphone cane with golden antlers arched around it. He goes to the Imperial Theater and performs both in theater and music.

Stay Tuned


	11. You're Never Fully Dressed Without A Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, Hobo Man  
> Hey Dapper Dan  
> You’ve both got your style  
> But brother  
> You’re never fully dressed  
> Without a smile”  
> -Annie Broadway Musical

Mimzy is introduced as a star singer and performer, wolf like men drooling over her much to Alastor’s distaste. She meets Alastor and they perform on stage together. She invites him to a jazz club and they drink liquor when they can. (Mimzy enjoys doughnuts and Alastor venison). Mimzy had killed her husband for his insurance money and even helped out Alastor with his secret killings. She helped him use axes, knives, guns and even hexes, and she kept his secret from others. Alastor and Mimzy are both charmed by the other’s fame and performances. Alastor describes Mimzy as a “beautiful dame, a canary who takes my breath away.”

And of course, Alastor sings his favorite song on the air (Never Fully Dressed), which is a huge hit.

Stay Tuned


	12. Charleston

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Charleston! Charleston! Made in Carolina!  
> Some dance, some prance,  
> I’ll say there’s nothing finer than the  
> Charleston, Charleston, gee how you can shuffle  
> Every step you do leads to something new  
> Man, I’m telling you, it’s a lapazoo!”  
> -James P. Johnson / Arthur Gibbs

Alastor and Mimzy dance the Charleston. That’s pretty much it.

Stay Tuned


	13. Let's Misbehave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’re all alone  
> No chaperone  
> Can get our number  
> The world’s in slumber  
> Let’s misbehave  
> There’s something wild  
> About you, child  
> That’s so contagious  
> Let’s be outrageous  
> Let’s misbehave”  
> -Irving Aaronson

Alastor and Mimzy almost have sex but Alastor declines, not interested in romance and intimacy. Mimzy is stunned by this and she only embraces Alastor’s asexuality once they reunite in Hell. She thought that Alastor liked women like most other men. Mimzy dreams of traveling the world with Alastor, having lavish sex and being seen as a queen on cruises. Alastor, however, prefers a simpler life of entertainment, with the freedom to do things himself. He sees Mimzy like an adorable friend. The two of them murder people in the night and she sings on his radio show. Alastor always wears gloves during his killings.

Stay Tuned


	14. Runnin' Wild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Runnin’ wild, lost control  
> Runnin’ wild, mighty bold  
> Feelin’ gay, reckless too  
> Care free mind all the time, never blue  
> Always goin’ don’t know where  
> Always showin’ I don’t care  
> Don’t love nobody, it’s not worth while  
> All alone, runnin’ wild. Runnin’ wild.”  
> -Duke Ellington

Mimzy and Alastor argue and Alastor wants to be free to do his own thing. He doesn’t like it when Mimzy flirts and shows off her body to other men, even though it’s often part of the show. He also thinks she can be too clingy. Mimzy thinks Alastor is aloof, too focused on himself and his radio shows. Mimzy dies in the 1920s after accidentally drinking a poisoned drink intended for a racist man set up by Alastor. A heartbroken Alastor blames himself for her death.

Stay Tuned


	15. Crazy Rhythm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Crazy rhythm here’s the doorway  
> I’ll go my way, you’ll go your way  
> Crazy rhythm from now on we’re through”  
> -Whispering Jack Smith

Alastor enjoys the Stock Market Crash of 1929, as it makes himself feel good about his higher status. He also enjoys the sight of people struggling like it was a movie. He sees crying orphans tossed out in the streets and he laughs at how pathetic they look. He makes jokes about them (“Who are they gonna tell, their parents?”)

However, his luck runs out during the Great Depression. He has to sell his red car and much of his belongings to buy cans of food. More people are curious about “Picture Boxes” and Alastor starts to lose followers. He refuses to sell his radios, and hordes them in his house. As radio gradually falls into decline, so does Alastor’s sanity. He had lost his mother, his best friend and all the luxuries he had accumulated. Even the spirits weren’t satisfied with him, saying that now he had to pay his debt. (Pride comes before the fall). Left alone, bored, deprived and gaunt, he begins a killing spree. He kills animals and more people both at night and during the day (but spares women and children). He even resorts to eating bodies to survive. (Rosie later introduces him to cannibalism in Hell, which he loves). Alastor also hunts and hurts animals, still relishing the moments when he feels in control. In addition, Alastor hexes people’s houses using dark Voodoo and Hoodoo. His hair becomes long like his hair in Hell. His shadow morphs into a wendigo as the remaining traces of humanity vanish from him. Even all the instruments he plays sound discordant. 

At some point, Alastor looks after Niffty/Nerissa as a baby before she is put up for adoption.

Stay Tuned


	16. Video Killed The Radio Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Video killed the radio star  
> Video killed the radio star  
> In my mind and in my car  
> We can't rewind, we've gone too far”  
> -The Buggles

Nineteen thirty three

“Police, open up!”

A loud banging awakened Alastor from a sitting stupor. A used cigarette fell out of his mouth and onto the table. He had been gazing aimlessly at one of his old radios, almost willing it to flick to life. There was a pile of boxy radios sitting in his office…he refused to sell them, even as the house and himself began to fall apart day by day. The food ran out, then the heat. He had to sell his car, his fancy antlered cane…all the material possessions he could find just for enough canned foods to maybe last a week. 

Alastor stared at the fairly recent bloodstains on his white gloves. He wore a white buttoned shirt with red sleeves, his black bow tie lopsided. He also wore dark pants and shoes. He straightened up his round glasses on the bridge of his nose. His brown eyes had bags under them, his stature displaying an unhealthy thinness. Alastor wondered if his radio shows would soon be forgotten, discarded away like the furniture radios he loved so much way back. 

Not being in the spotlight as much…radios gradually falling by the wayside…no more lavish food, fashion and fun like the previous decade. Here he was, isolated, and now without his audience, he felt truly alone. The fading bumpy scars along his body, chest and back were the remaining legacies left behind by his father. 

Alastor stared one last time at a black and white picture of him and his mother, both of them smiling. It seemed like a lifetime ago that she had been with him. Warmth, strength and happiness in her eyes through every step of Alastor’s youthful life. Sewing, cooking, singing, dancing and voodoo rituals would always bring back fond memories of her. What would she think of him now…a shell of his former glorious self, hidden by a plastic smile? 

And dear Mimzy…the dashing heavyset blonde flapper girl and perhaps his only friend. One day she was there with him, singing, eating sweets and drinking the night away. Then the next day she had died during the Roaring Twenties. A heartbroken Alastor had blamed himself for her death. Maybe if he had loved her properly…given her the fairy tale romance she wanted in the first place. Alas, he didn’t want sex and deep intimacy like she did. He saw her as a close companion, a beautiful friend he could sing and travel with. He didn’t get a chance to confess his feelings to her.

Broadcasting and killing were the only purposes in his life now. 

The door rattled again. “Open the door and put your hands in the air!”

How could he have been so careless? Just a few hours ago, he had brutally slashed the throats of two criminals, a white man and a black man. They were known to beat innocent people in the poor red light district along with committing a few rapes. The police hadn’t bothered to go after them, so he decided to finish the job. 

In a rather ungentlemanly manner, he had bitten into their necks like a starved wolf. And indeed, he was always in search of food. There was a great scarcity during the Great Depression, thus he resorted to…unconventional methods to try and survive. 

Perhaps Alastor had been a little too over-enthusiastic about their deaths on the radio. Or maybe it was the trail of bloody footprints that had led the coppers to his location. 

But whatever the case, Alastor knew that the inevitable was fast approaching him. 

Large hands forced the door open and there stood two police officers with hard round hats, golden badges, black uniforms and ominous black batons in their hands. 

“You’re under arrest for murder in the first degree, second degree…”

Alastor stood and smiled nervously, “Third degree, nth degree, I get it, folks…”

A gun shot was fired, the bullet hitting the wall not too far from Alastor’s head. He dashed into the kitchen. There was a pile of papers and radios that stood in the way of the door. There appeared to be no way to escape…

But off to Alastor’s left was a window, thankfully wide open. 

Without hesitation, the man ran forward and dove out the window, landing in a heap on the snow below. His thin bony form allowed him to cross the small opening. He took great gulps of air, lifting himself up and sprinting as fast as his legs could carry him. 

“Get back here!” the police called. Alastor climbed over fences and didn’t look back. 

The sky was turning blood-red in the sunset. Not too far behind him, Alastor heard some barking. He peered back and saw two ferocious dogs, a German Shepherd and a Rottweiler chasing after him. Their maws were red and their white teeth sharp. The police waved their batons and followed the dogs. Another gun shot rang out. Panting hard, Alastor shoved several people out of the way as he ran. He dodged carts and carriages and old fashioned cars that swerved to avoid him. Horses neighed and reared up while several people yelped in surprise. 

By a stroke of luck, two frightened horses from a carriage blocked the dogs’ path. Alastor used this opportunity to dash into a nearby side alley. Catching his breath and grimacing, Alastor climbed into a nearby green dumpster, rolling deep into the trash. The foul odors assaulted his nostrils. There were black bags, cans, sloppy food and some unrecognizable items everywhere. He curled up into a ball, scared despite his forced smile. His heart stopped when he heard the scraping of feet coming closer. The two dogs were circling the dumpster, panting, growling and sniffing.

Alastor didn’t dare move or breathe. They would find him and it would be the end. There was no way he’d let himself get arrested. 

The dogs sniffed some more and Alastor thought he heard one of the dogs bark loudly. The silhouettes of the policemen stood at the alleyway opening. 

“Keep searching, he can’t have gone far!” he heard a voice. The policemen raced ahead down the street, the dogs following them. The barking and steps faded.

How long he was there, he didn’t know. He couldn’t believe that his unpleasant idea to hide his scent had worked. Ever so cautiously, he peered over the ledge. When all was clear, he pulled himself up, briefly landing in a heap on the hard ground. He stood up, brushing away bits of garbage from his hair and clothing. He hated smelling and looking so horrible. 

Alastor looked around, then made his way down the quieter evening streets, sticking close to the shadows. 

There were wanted posters of him on walls and telephone poles. Several passerby gave him suspicious glares. Alastor caught a glimpse at the woods in the fading light. He made his way out of the city and toward nature as fast as he could. Bare tall trees soon surrounded him. The chilly evening air cut through his clothes. 

Not too far away, he spotted a hulking figure standing over a deer. He leaned back against a tree, peering to get a closer look. 

The man was a deer hunter, dressed in combat boots, a vest, pants and a belt of animal pelts. To Alastor’s revulsion, the man was posing by the wounded stag at his feet. A series of pained groans came from the animal. Alastor seethed through his teeth; that would not do at all. The area was still light enough to see shapes and the ground, the full Hunter’s Moon lighting the way. 

As quiet as a mouse, Alastor tiptoed closer until he was almost behind the man. He spotted a rock and threw it ahead of him.

“What’s that?” the man grunted, distracted by the rock. Alastor broke off a sharp piece of the deer’s antler, holding it in his hands. 

The man whirled around, “Hey what are you…”

In an instant, Alastor thrust the sharp piece into the hunter’s chest. The man gasped and stumbled back, tripping over the legs of the stag. 

“Oh deer,” Alastor mused as he took careful steps toward the hunter. The man crawled backwards on his hands and legs. He aimed some kicks at Alastor but he gracefully moved out of the way. He grabbed hold of the man’s legs and squeezed as hard as he could. “You call yourself a hunter and you hurt those creatures like it’s nothing.” Anger burned in his eyes.

The man’s eyes grew wide. “Stay away, you filthy lunatic!”

Alastor only leaned closer and in the blink of an eye, landed a hard kick to his face and body. And another. And another. 

“Looks like the hunter became the hunted. Quite the irony!” He spoke like he was talking to an invisible audience. 

The hunter cried out in pain but Alastor didn’t stop. He could see his father’s face in and out of the man’s features. He saw the feared looks of his victims, the pleading desperation for survival present in humans and animals alike. The hunter was groaning in terror and pain like the nearby stag on the ground. Even in Alastor’s weakened state, he still got the satisfaction of having dominance over others. They were all the same to him…morsels there for him to maim to his liking. It was a rare, wonderful feeling that almost made up for him almost getting caught. 

“Kiss all your fawn experiences goodbye,” Alastor sneered, a crazed look on his face. 

The man yelled out again before he gargled for breath as Alastor pushed the sharp antler point deeper in. He moved it around, red blood splattering on the cold ground. The man’s eyes rolled back, his head lolling to the side before falling still. 

Alastor walked over to the wounded deer, silently spoke a prayer and then promptly snapped the beast’s neck. The pained animal noises stopped. He bent down and used a nearby hunting knife to carefully skin the animal. He didn’t care that the deer meat was raw, or that the hanging bits of flesh from the hunter were not cooked.

He was too hungry to even think. He stuffed the bloody meat into his mouth, his mouth stained red. His shadow briefly morphed into a grotesque silhouette with glowing eyes and branching antlers. Alastor chewed and ate until he felt momentarily satisfied. 

Stealing a shovel from the hunter’s sack, he hummed a cheery tune as he began to dig a grave through the snow and dirt. When the hole was large and deep enough, he dumped the deer hunter’s body into it. But before he could add dirt on top of the corpse, he heard something. A low voice and a growl.

More policemen and dogs were trekking through the woods, following his trail.

Not too far away in the dark, another hunter carried a rifle in his hands. A couple of hunting dogs strolled by his side. One of the dog’s ears perked up and it suddenly froze. 

The white man hunter peered ahead into the dusk wood. He saw a tall figure pace back and forth.

“A deer,” he breathed. He gave a signal to his companions and the dogs charged ahead with loud barks. 

Alastor slowly turned around and saw the canines suddenly rush and leap at him. There was a deer in the headlights look in his wide brown orbs. The shovel fell from his hands and he cried out. Barks and howls clashed with his screams as sharp teeth sunk into him at every angle. Teeth tore at his shirt, his legs, and his skin all over. Rips, tears, the squelching sounds of flesh being torn. Blood spots stained the snow. Alastor couldn’t shake the dogs away, even though he tried to escape. His round glasses fell off his face and landed cracked in the snow. 

Alastor wondered if one of the dogs had rabies…black spots danced across his vision and a flaming pain raced within his head. He saw snarling mouths and spinning trees…he felt like he was drowning in a hurricane filled with monsters.   
He yelled out swear words and “Nos!” and gibberish, gasping for breath. Even though the pain and blood loss, he kept a strained smile on his face. He stood on shaky legs, the dogs clinging to him. Tears rolled down his grimy face. 

And just when Alastor thought he couldn’t handle the agony any longer…

Bang!

A gunshot rang out from the hunter’s rifle. The bullet struck Alastor square between his eyes. The man collapsed dead in an instant. The dogs briefly mauled at him until the hunter crept closer. 

The hunter gasped in shock at the bloodied man lying on the ground. His clothes were dirty and torn, his hair a mess, and an unsettling frozen smile lay on his pale cooling face. 

“Good Heavens sir, I’m so sorry…” he said, even though there was no answer. 

The police arrived, carrying lanterns the illuminated the grisly scene. They spotted the dead deer hunter in the hole, the stag corpse and the dead body before them.

“What’s happened?” one man asked the hunter who was briefly in tears.

“I-I didn’t mean it, my dogs bit him and I shot him. I thought that guy was a deer.” He pointed a shaking hand at the dead Alastor.

“Wait,” the policeman said. “That’s the Louisiana Lunatic, the infamous serial killer we’ve been looking for. And he’s…dead?”

The hunter stopped crying and peered closer. “He must’ve killed that guy in the hole…”

The police paused then breathed sighs of relief. “Thank goodness you weren’t hurt! Come with us, we’ll get you somewhere warm.”

“You’re gonna be famous soon,” the other policeman mentioned. 

“Really?” the hunter asked with a stutter. “So I’m not in trouble…”

Then a greedy grin spread across the hunter’s face. He was a white-skinned man with slick black hair and icy blue eyes. 

“What’s your name?” the police asked eagerly.

“Vincent, a member of RCA. But I sometimes call myself Vox.”

Vincent became famous overnight. His name appeared in the newspaper and advertisements showing his potential television programs became widespread. 

The headlines were big and bold:

"Breaking News! Louisiana Lunatic found dead in the woods!"

"Serial Killer Alastor Moreau shot dead by RCA Employee Vox!"

Vox's favorite headline read: "Video Killed The Radio Star! Vox Hailed as Hero After Mass Murderer's Death."

Reporters surrounded Vox by the dozens.

"How did you survive?"

"It is true that you killed that maniac before the police could arrest him?"

Vox bragged about his talents, his race and his exploits with various women. And, of course, Vox had his share of fans. Vox did not face any charges as he had “merely killed a villainous bozo by accident.” 

"That handsome TV man saved New Orleans!"

"He's so smart and brave!"

A radio announcement went on the air on Alastor's station one last time by Vox himself:

"1933, Alastor Moreau, (Jan 24th 1899-1933) was shot in the head in the woods yesterday after attempting to flee police. Witnesses said he appeared to be in distress and was last seen dashing into the woods from the New Orleans Police Department. Radios, voodoo trinkets, gris-gris, and half-eaten body parts were discovered in his cabin, house and shed. Alastor was shot in the forehead by RCA employee and upcoming star Vox. A brief autopsy revealed that he had been infected by rabies. The public can rest easy now that the infamous Louisiana Lunatic is now deceased. The only thing I can say for the man caught like a deer in the headlights, "oh dear, and good riddance.""

Vox later enjoyed profits, fame and sex, after television became more prominent in later years. He traveled all over the country, and soon, the incident was long forgotten.

Alastor’s fans of his radio show were notably upset and shocked at the news, but the majority of New Orleans were thankful that he was gone. His studio and belongings were either burned or given away. His body was burned as well, ashes spread in the woods with no proper funeral. Some of his intact radios found a new home at an antique shop. Some of them were expensive, some were cheaper, but people were too into the new trend of "Picture Boxes," to think much of it.  
All traces of the infamous serial killer had been lost to memory it seemed.

Somewhere in New Orleans, the old radios had been moved to an antique shop in the French Quarter. All of them were arranged separately on shelves among unfinished TV models, pots, figures and other objects. Night had fallen and the store was empty.

With no explanation, the oldest radio blinked to life, the outer speakers and knobs blinking faint yellow lights. A strange row of teeth in a wide grin near the bottom was part of the design. Those lit up golden as well. The hum of static filled the air. 

A low radio sounding voice spoke through the speakers…demonic and quite different from the radio’s previous owner…

“Stay tuned folks.” Ominous laughter followed.


End file.
